


Body Swap

by haleinedelail



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A Nightingale Sings in Berkeley Square (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Aziraphale and crepes, Blessing, Body Swap, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley slept through most of the 19th century, Dining at the Ritz (Good Omens), Finger Sucking, Fourteenth century, Holding back from sex, I Love You, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Power Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Service Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Temptation, The Night At Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), Top Crowley (Good Omens), aziraphale says fuck, holding hands on the bus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:47:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27333670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haleinedelail/pseuds/haleinedelail
Summary: On the night of the near-miss Armageddon, we all know that Crowley and Aziraphale probably spent the night together. As they work through what comes next for them, they also delve into what has come before. Exploration of an episode of fourteenth-century temptation/blessing only now reveals huge implications for them - their relationship, their past, and future!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 43
Kudos: 67





	1. ONE

**Author's Note:**

> (This story is not a part of the "Days To Come/Third Domain/Creature Comforts" series. The final installment of that is coming soonish... but I kind of want to wait for the pandemic to pass, if possible...)
> 
> Anyway, this is the result of some plot bunnies who are bastards, and won't let me rest until I feed them! But I cannot tell you any more about why I'm writing this story, nor how the idea came to me, without giving away the game. 
> 
> Just suffice it to say, we are going to take a little bit of a walk back into the fourteenth century with our boys, and some explosive revelations will come to light. Everything they think they know about their friendship, and each other... it's all about to change!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale retires with Crowley to his flat on that fateful Saturday night, after the world didn't end. The Body Swap as we know it is still in their future. They are feeling already some differences in the dynamic between them (squee!) but must lay it all aside for the time being, in favour of more pressing matters... namely, how will they survive the next twenty-four hours?

In 1729, the Earth-bound demon known as Crowley moved into a flat on Harley street. It took quite some infernal miracling to secure it so as not to alert anyone to the fact that he had never purchased it, and that the garden remained impossibly impeccable (or impeccably impossible?) all year long. His green thumb was talked about on the block, but no-one seemed to notice that the foliage always flourished just after the neighbours had all heard him out there in the middle of the night, screaming at it. (The reason no-one reported the screaming was also due to a demonic miracle.)

After living there for sixty-four years, he was obliged to pop across the Channel to rescue a friend from beheading. The friends then ducked quietly out of Paris and stopped at every tavern on the road to Calais, and took their sweet time. They shared a leisurely boat ride back to England, then took their same sweet time on the road back to London from Dover.

And when they reached London, they weren't quite ready for it to end. And so, his friend, the Earth-bound angel known as Aziraphale, entered Crowley's flat, and the two of them spent the next week (plus one day) basically drunk, laughing about so-called Enlightenment thinkers, and pretending that days and days weren't passing, so that they wouldn't have to say goodbye.

By the early 19th century, Crowley had moved on to a slightly more modest place in Paddington. There, he had grown depressed at the stodgy turn society was taking – temptation was actually becoming a challenge – so he had fallen asleep despondently in 1815. When he awoke, it was 1856. The neighbourhood had changed little, and the same could be said of the societal mores that had forced him into a Van-Winkle-like retreat. Still, he resolved to stretch out his bones and muscles, have some strong coffee, and try to stay awake until the turn of the century or so.

On his second day awake, in a nearby café, the son of the man who had been running it when he'd fallen asleep reported that a "dandy" with curly white hair had been asking after him for some time… every six months or so, for about thirty years, in fact. So, he reckoned he'd better get in touch with Aziraphale, as the angel clearly was concerned for him. And when Crowley walked into the bookshop three days after waking, Aziraphale expressed a restrained relief and pleasure at seeing him, and confessed that he had banged on the flat door once a month since 1822, to no avail.

"Good Lord, you're a sound sleeper, Crowley," he had tutted.

"Well, what was there waking up for? Petticoats? Victorian celibacy, which is so much more robust than ordinary celibacy?"

Aziraphale had rolled his eyes, and offered his demonic friend a Scotch.

The reality was, it was worth waking up for a Scotch with Aziraphale. And staying awake, in fact. He rather wished he'd done so sooner.

And so, things seemed better again for a few years, until 1862 when he had almost been caught saving a child from an oncoming carriage. A demon can get into a lot of trouble for a thing like that, and he didn't fancy an eternity in a stone prison in hell. One of his supervisors, Ligur, had popped in for a routine check at just the wrong time, and had seen something, though Crowley didn't quite know what, and he hadn't covered his tracks very well. He began to fear that his hellish bosses were onto him: he really wasn't a very demony demon. Except at temptation - he was great at that in every era of history except for this one. But everyday evil, relishing in the suffering of humans? He was rubbish at that.

And so, Crowley wanted insurance; if any emissary from hell should come for him, he needed a way to dispatch them in a hurry, because this was hardly the first time he'd cocked things up, and Minions of Hell were not known for giving each other the benefit of the doubt.

But his favourite angel refused to help. If he was honest with himself, Crowley understood Aziraphale's trepidation at putting Holy Water into his hands, but he had sincerely hoped that the trust that existed between them could transcend the angel's reticence.

Alas, those hopes had been in vain. And he'd grown so depressed again at this rejection, this weirdly caring shoving-aside of their millennia-long friendship (was this tough love?), he'd returned to his flat and gone back to sleep. This time when he woke, it was 1894, and he could hear banging on the flat door. It was Aziraphale, back again, for one of his monthly door-bangings. The angel had been incredibly surprised to see him answer. Crowley tried to act like there was nothing out of the ordinary, and invited his friend in for… well, he didn't have anything in, since he'd been snoring for thirty-two years… but they had a nice chat. Holy Water was not mentioned again for nearly another half-century.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------

MID-AUGUST, MODERN DAY LONDON

And so, obviously, tonight was not the first time Aziraphale had been inside Crowley's flat… but it was the first time he had visited this flat.

It was a day of many firsts. That morning, Aziraphale had jogged in the park for the very first time. Not by choice mind you, but a milestone was a milestone. It was the first time Aziraphale had ever said the "F" word out loud. It was the first time he had ever shared a body with a human.

It was the first Apocalypse either one of them had ever seen… or very nearly seen. It was the first time Aziraphale had nowhere to go, as his bookshop had burned down, and he had been so used to retiring there at the end of the day, he no longer remembered how to be a beatific angel whose needs transcended having a domicile.

And so, it was the first time Crowley had expressly invited the angel to stay with him. It was also the first time Crowley had ever reached out for his hand, and the first time (by default) he hadn't pulled it away.

Holding hands on the bus on the two-hour ride back to London had been quite pleasing, especially as they hadn't spoken about it at all, but merely pretended it was incredibly natural. And indeed, it rather was.

Crowley's current flat was, unsurprisingly, dark, had hard edges, and a bunch of terrified houseplants in one corner. But it was very, very chic. And, very, very Crowley.

"Well?" asked the red-haired demon, smirking, standing at a T-junction, in front of a statue of an eagle that he had salvaged from the wreckage of a church during the Blitz. As usual, he was looking very cool, thumbs hooked into the pockets of his black jeans, hip crooked, shades on.

"I like it," Aziraphale said, coming back down the hall after visiting, misting, and reassuring the foliage.

"You always say that," Crowley said softly.

"Well, I always mean it," Aziraphale responded, thinking back to his demon friend's previous digs. They were always dark and stylishly severe for the era, which was not what the angel would have chosen, but obviously, Crowley would. "It's very you. It is its essential Crowley-ness that I enjoy."

The demon dared to smile. "Really? I'm going to remember you said that."

"No doubt," Aziraphale said, stopping about six feet from his friend, clasping his hands behind his back, and rocking up on the balls of his feet momentarily. It was a fidget. Crowley had seen this fidget plenty of times.

"Drink?" Crowley had already downed an entire bottle of Scotch that afternoon, plus shared two or three bottles of wine with his best friend that evening, but that was one of the advantages to being a supernatural being: an absolutely colossal tolerance for alcohol.

"Oh, I think so," the angel answered, with some relief.

"Come on," Crowley said, resisting the urge to grab his friend's hand again, lead him somewhere, and never let go.

The kitchen was mostly black, quite geometric, and modern beyond belief. It was minimalist to a fault – there was no evidence of food having been prepared here, ever. Not even toast. Or a panini. Certainly not biscuits mixed with a KitchenAid. No appliances on the counter except an espresso machine that would have cost several thousand pounds if Crowley were the sort of chap to pay for things, and a gadget that pulled out wine corks electrically, but whose appearance made Aziraphale blush a bit. No biscuit tin, and certainly no containers for flour, sugar, or ground coffee.

It was the kitchen of someone who literally did not eat. It, too, was very Crowley.

As Crowley turned on the lights under the cabinets, Aziraphale said, "Nice backsplash."

Crowley looked back over his shoulder suggestively, and sang, "Thanks."

The angel missed the innuendo. He did that from time to time, though not as often as he let on.

The demon waved his hand aggressively, and the door flew open on a climate-controlled wine rack beside the fridge. The top half was chilled and housed an array of champagnes and whites. The bottom half was kept just below room-temperature, and featured Crowley's favourite reds, and some very nice whiskeys.

"All right, angel, what's your pleasure?" Crowley asked, with an eyebrow flutter.

"Well, I quite fancy carrying on with red wine. Don't you?"

"Whatever you like," said the demon, who then extracted the most expensive bottle from the rack, and waved the door shut.

Weirdly, he used the electric corkscrew, instead of magic. And even more weirdly, Aziraphale felt a bit of a pang of something slightly impish as he did so, but Crowley did not. The angel fully expected his friend to look up and wink, but no such thing occurred. Aziraphale admonished himself as a knee-jerk reaction, but then realised that many things had happened in the past twenty-four hours, the most important of which were in the last two. He relaxed, and reassured himself that feeling "pangs" with Crowley was nothing new, and nothing to be ashamed of. Not anymore.

Crowley discarded the cork with a snap of his fingers, and handed the bottle to Aziraphale, who grasped it, and took a big, warm swig before for handing it back.

Crowley removed his glasses and threw them onto the counter, and took the next swig, feeling yet more alcohol heat up his insides, making him feel the slightest bit bolder. They were on his turf, physical contact had been established, Aziraphale was malleable, it was quite clear…

… but oh, they had other business tonight.

"Angel, we should talk about some things," he said.

"Yes, I rather think we should."

"Suivez-moi," Crowley said, striding out of the kitchen, across an onyx-floored foyer, into an arm of the flat where there was a lounge, with two wide, rambling sofas. They were both L-shaped, and formed a "U," with a simple coffee table at the centre. Only about one-third of the sofa had a back, for sitting upright. Most of it was just soft, charcoal grey, and flat, absolutely meant for lounging. For striking a pose.

Crowley did just that. He shrugged off his jacket and lowered himself onto his side, and rested his elbow casually on one of the seat backs, and the rest of him sprawled upon the cushions like an odalisque. He snapped his fingers, and a triangular fireplace came to life.

"Have a seat, angel," he said, tipping the bottle back, and letting another mouthful infuse him. Aziraphale sat surprisingly close, with Crowley to his left, of course, and re-appropriated the bottle for himself. "What the Heaven are we going to do? We both know we're buggered unless we come up with something really damn clever."

After taking a long, luxurious drink, Aziraphale set the wine down on the coffee table, and pulled a worn-out, yellowing index card from his pocket, and handed it to Crowley.

"What is this?"

"Read it," Aziraphale said. "Anathema gave it to me, just after Adam left with his father, and just before she and her young man began trekking back through the wood to find their car."

Crowley frowned at it, then said, in a high-pitched, exaggeratedly archaic, witchy voice, "When alle is fayed and all is done, ye must choofe your faces wisely, for soon enouff ye will be playing with fyre."

"Indeed," lilted the angel. "Agnes predicted it."

"You think this is proof positive?"

"What else could it be? It's no coincidence that that scrap of paper made its way into my hand, Crowley. I'm an angel, I'm tied to the fates. So was Agnes Nutter. And what you and I did was treasonous."

"But… that's ridiculous. My lot don't play with fire. That's a stereotype."

"A stereotype? Really?" Aziraphale asked, with more than a hint of scepticism.

"Well, all stereotypes are rooted in truth," Crowley shrugged. "I mean, back in the day, yeah, it was all about the fire and brimstone, all that Dante bullshit. But now? Pfff. Even Hell has the good sense to modernise. And mind you, even if they did play with fire still, demons are immune."

"That's true," Aziraphale sighed.

"Do you think just anyone could have driven a flaming Bentley out of London, all the way to Oxfordshire? Not bloody likely."

Aziraphale studied the card. "Well, then, perhaps it's about my lot."

"Now that's a terrifying thought."

"I'm serious, Crowley."

"Your lot? Playing with fire?"

The angel nodded. "Mm. It might be a fitting penalty for treason. From their point of view, of course."

Crowley laughed out loud. He affected Gabriel's crisp voice, and bellowed, "You like that fucking Hellion that much? Well, here's some Hellfire! Knock yourself out! Literally!"

"It's not out of the realm of possibility," Aziraphale sighed, leaning forward for the bottle. He took a swig, then passed it off to Crowley, who did the same. The wine was mostly gone now. They'd need a new one soon.

A contemplative silence hung in the air.

Then, "Oh, shit, angel, do you think they might actually do that?"

Aziraphale had a fretful look written all across his forehead, eyes, and cheeks. "The more I think of it, the more I think so."

Crowley sat up straight. "You're absolutely right – it would be a bloody good way to show you up. Like that movie Seven: your own sin forced down your throat, a poetically just death for your transgression."

"I don't know to what film you are referring but…" Aziraphale wrung his hands. "Oh, Crowley, this is awful. Just awful!"

"Well now, hold on, angel, let's think this through. First of all, where would your lot even get fire?"

"An excellent question."

They both gave this some thought. Then, "A phone call downstairs," Crowley said, with a bit of dread in his voice. "Who knows what sorts of liaisons exist in the back hallways of Heaven and Hell?"

"Don't be silly," Aziraphale scoffed. "They wouldn't… cooperate."

"Both sides are pissed off and are going to want to make examples of us. It's just possible – but only just – that they might help each other out. You and I both know the value of interdepartmental collaboration. And that's another reason why they would do it, another way to use our transgression against us."

Aziraphale frowned deeply. "So, if they're going to try to burn me with Hellfire, then what's it to be for you? Playing with fire… how does one burn a demon?"

No more than two seconds passed, and their eyes met. With dread. With knowing. With utter terror. Crowley's penetrating golden eyes were boring holes into Aziraphale's, and the angel's worry, written all over his gaze, was practically breaking Crowley's heart.

"Holy water," Aziraphale said, his voice trembling.

"Holy water," Crowley repeated.

"No! No, that can't be," Aziraphale whispered. "Not even Gabriel would allow… interdepartmental cooperation, indeed."

"Not even Gabriel," Crowley scoffed. "Psh. Gabriel, in case you hadn't noticed, is a moron, a rule-follower to the point of fucking madness, not to mention a vengeful prick."

There was a short pause, and then Aziraphale nearly broke down into tears. "Oh, Crowley! Holy water! I can't bear the thought of that! We haven't come this far just so that I can lose you in a pool of boiling goo!"

"Nor I you, in some sort of firestorm. Already did that once - pretty sure it would kill me if I had to do it a second time. Which would be appropriate, I guess."

"If only I could take your place," the angel whined rather breathlessly.

Crowley chuckled. "That would be interesting."

"Well," Aziraphale said, his voice low. "It wouldn't be the first time I've stood in for someone."

"True. We've job-swapped before."

"Well, yes. That, too."

"That, too?"

"Er, Crowley, it seems… never mind."

"What?"

"Well, there's something I want to tell you, but it can wait."

"Wait for what?"

"Perhaps for us to survive tomorrow?"

"But what if we don't?" Crowley asked, eyes, down-turned now just like his friend's.

"If we don't survive, it won't matter."

"Angel."

"Let's just concentrate on not being obliterated by our own home offices any time in the near future, and then we can talk about other things."

"All right. So… standing in. Maybe we can work out a way for you to stand in for me, and vice versa."

Aziraphale smiled. "Yes, I rather think we can."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I now insert a shameless plug for comments! If you are having thoughts about this story, suggestions, questions, etc. I would love to hear them! Knowing you're out there, and are reading, is a huge boost for me, and will encourage me to continue writing!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	2. TWO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little trip back to the fourteenth century with Crowley! It will take two chapters to tell this bit of the story. Here, Crowley tempts a fellow named Sarrazin, in whom he has observed some obvious and pesky vices, even without the demon's help. And so, the groundwork is laid in this chapter for an even bigger temptation later on.
> 
> This may seem like a different story, but it is not. This DEFINITELY has bearing on the modern-day events. Stay tuned!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have guessed, the historical accuracy here is spotty. I do research, but I also have to remind myself now and then that this is fan fiction, life is short, and all writers take liberties here and there.
> 
> What's accurate? It's set before the Black Death (just barely) so that certain events later in the story won't seem so weird. Dates of the Château de Vincennes' construction are more or less accurate, as is the walking time between Vincennes and Paris, the borders/city walls of Paris at that time, the clothing described. Also, there are/were, in fact, several quarries near Vincennes, one of which would have been a 2-hour trip by horse and cart (give or take).
> 
> The Gauffre might have been introduced in Paris a century or so later... they are the ancestor of the modern waffle, and were made with cheese, rather than sugar.
> 
> What am I clueless about? Life in the keep, or whether there was a keep during the construction of the Château de Vincennes. I don't know if there's such a thing as a quarry carter, therefore I have no idea whether they could work as freelancers, how they would get paid, whether they could defraud the King's Trust in this way, etc. I also am not sure about tavern/inn/alehouse culture at the time, nor what the difference is between those three types of establishments.
> 
> Doing my best to make things realistic, yet not too complicated... 
> 
> \---------------------------------------------
> 
> Oh, and one last thing: Swedes and Rutabagas are the same thing, as I understand it... it's a British/American lingo difference.
> 
> Enjoy!

LATE MAY, 1337, VINCENNES, FRANCE

There were, of course, several roads that led out of town, but Crowley liked this one, through the Bois de Vincennes. It was scenic, and less travelled. It provided shade and secrecy, both of which were paramount to a demon ducking out of a mess he'd left behind, who also didn't fancy walking back to Paris in the hot sun.

As he often did when leaving the scene of a temptation, he thought of the "mark," the man or woman who had been target of his mischief, and dared to self-assess. Often, though he wouldn't admit it to himself, he felt a bit depressed about screwing with the life of a basically defenceless human. Once in a while, he felt fine – they had it coming.

Today, contemplating the lot in life of Paul L'Apôtre Sarrazin, he felt rather indifferent. The man was pretty ripe for temptation, but a bad person by no means. He probably drank too much wine, and could, on occasion, be a hard-boiled gambler. But he was a hard worker whose children rarely wanted for anything. He never raised a hand to them, nor to his wife, though, to be fair, he didn't spend a particularly large amount of time with them.

He did have quite the wandering eye, but he never seemed to indulge in fleshly pleasures outside of his marriage… at least not as far as Crowley could tell. And Crowley was quite good at spotting that sort of thing.

He was also good at spotting the reason why Sarrazin never strayed outside of his marriage. But in this particular instance, he reckoned that all of that was neither here nor there.

Because Sarrazin's biggest flaw was having no particular strength of conviction.

Like most people, he toed the line at church, he tried to earn a living, remain respectable, to keep up appearances. But he didn't much care about what God thought of him, or about going out of his way to help his fellow man (unless it was something simple and not-too-time-consuming). And he wasn't overly concerned with honesty. He routinely lied to his wife about his gambling, lied to his patrons about why he was tardy in the morning (mostly because of overnight revels), and lied to his confessor about his sins.

Crowley didn't really know why he'd been ordered to mess with Sarrazin specifically – he suspected it was because Sarrazin was neither bad nor good, and could be tipped either way. But at 38 years old, he was one of the oldest men in the keep, therefore an important pillar of that community. And the community being relatively close to a major city, perhaps Crowley was underestimating his political importance.

But honestly, the demon didn't much care – he just went in, did the job, and left.

It had been fairly straightforward, as these things go: cause the mark to disgrace himself, and then make sure everyone knows about it – it was one of Crowley's modes of operation these days, whenever he was told to stir things up. He would observe the mark as closely as possible for a while – ten days, perhaps – and would be able to ascertain the personality, and the sort of transgression that might indeed tempt him or her, coupled with the morality and habits of the mark's community.

To that end, Crowley had spent the past four weeks working as a stonemason, helping construct the foundation of the new Château de Vincennes. He had been seeing Sarrazin daily, who was a quarry carter, a freelance worker who brought stone materials to the building site. Crowley positioned himself as a Master Mason at the site, who inspected, then accepted (or did not accept) the delivery each day. Over the first two weeks, the two of them had become passing friends, building a bit of trust and goodwill while Crowley used these interactions to observe him. Sarrazin talked a little bit about his family life, he allowed Crowley to see him roll his eyes with tedium as he talked of attending Sunday mass, or vespers with his wife during the week. At the end of that time, he happened to mention being a bit short of funds because he had placed a few too many bets, and lost.

"I tell you, Corneille," Sarrazin said to Crowley, because the latter used 'Corneille' as a pseudonym in France. "I shan't repeat that offence. As it is, I find myself scrambling for a plausible lie to tell my wife."

"Why not the truth?" Crowley asked.

"Why put oneself in the path of indignity, when a falsehood might do well enough, if it is crafted correctly?" Sarrazin asked this with a smirk.

Short on money, not pious, not overly scrupulous.

"All right," thought Crowley. "I can work with that."

Over the following two weeks, Crowley had dared to move figuratively forward into Sarrazin's personal space, and begin to prod – ask questions, find out more about the business of quarry carting. Sarrazin was more or less self-employed, and was currently earning his living by loading stone, and buying it from the quarrymen, then hauling it to Vincennes for use on the Château, selling it to the King's Trust for a tidy profit. There were dozens of businessmen just like him – they all knew one other, and tried to stay out of one another's way.

Crowley also began to notice the man looking him over, with a knowing curiosity. These little bits of non-verbal communication were something that the demon was incredibly good at reading, although this time, it didn't seem relevant. Sarrazin's need for funds, his willingness to take chances, and his devil-may-care attitude toward ethics seemed much more pertinent to this transaction.

So, one fateful Friday, Crowley was working in a corner of the building as he had been for four weeks, and he walked out onto the path to meet Sarrazin and his cart, as always. They were about twenty yards away from the other men, and Crowley made sure to look back at them a few times, as he spoke to Sarrazin. Nothing arouses suspicion like a man checking to make sure that he can't be heard.

But with a little help from demonic magic, he and Sarrazin could be heard, and the men at the building site listened to the muted tones of a mason and a carter.

"Listen, Sarrazin, since you're a friend, I think there's something you need to know," Crowley said.

"Yes? What is it?" the carter said, hopping down onto the dirt, giving Crowley that keen once-over.

Sarrazin was shorter than Crowley by a couple of inches, and had a hearty, barrel-chested build. He was strong – did a lot of lifting and toting. He had dark curly hair, and kept himself as clean-shaven as possible. He wasn't a bad-looking man, but in the keep, he was considered something of an elder, and he didn't have women flocking round him, as he had fifteen years previously.

Though, none of that was of much interest to him anyway.

Now that the man was off his horse, Crowley said to him, clandestinely, "Last night I came to the building site with my torch, and worked out a way to reconfigure a section of the foundation so as to need only half of what you've been bringing each day."

Sarrazin frowned and leaned to the side, seemingly to study what he could see of the Château's humble beginnings. "That can't be true."

"But it is," Crowley said.

And it was.

What Crowley had left out was that another bit of demonic magic had been used to do the reconfiguring, not some kind of Master Mason genius feat of engineering.

"Corneille," Sarrazin breathed, in disbelief. "I don't believe you! Is that safe?"

"Completely," Crowley said. "Give me some credit, Sarrazin – I've been doing this a long time."

"Yes, yes, of course you have."

"And I would never put humans in the path of giant chunks of collapsing rock."

That part was true. Squishing people was gruesome, unnecessary, and not his style.

"So what are you telling me?" asked Sarrazin.

Crowley moved in very close, and the carter stiffened, as though nervous about the proximity. Though he did not back away.

"You see a royal emissary at the commerce post, and receive your payment from the King's Trust on your way in, do you not? Before you see me each day?" Crowley asked, conspiratorially.

"Yes, I do."

"So you've received payment for the entire load already?"

"Yes, I have."

"Well, just give us half the load," Crowley said. "It's all we will need now, but no-one except you needs to know."

Sarrazin's eyebrows nearly touched his hairline. "Defraud the King's Trust?"

"Yes," Crowley said. "You squandered your saved funds on games of chance – it happens to the best of us. Do you want to hear the shrill admonition of your spouse? Do you want reminders of this incident for who knows how long?"

"My wife…"

"Do you want your children to go without bread?"

"We have money enough for bread, we have a chicken nearly ready for butchering, and we can trade for some swedes from a neighbour's little patch."

"Still," Crowley said. "Wouldn't it be nice not to deplete your reserves further? Or to be able to fatten up that chicken a bit more? Or have a second one, for good measure? And won't your wife ask why you are staying in all week, rather than enjoying libations with your neighbours?"

Sarrazin sighed. "It would be quite nice not to have to pinch so hard. Already we are experiencing some moderate hardships, that will grow more than moderate in the coming weeks."

"Of course," Crowley said. "And Sarrazin, if nothing else, your good friend went to the trouble of reconfiguring the masonry of a Château in order to assist you. If you do not accept this scenario, it would be an insult."

"The last thing I would wish to do is insult you," Sarrazin said, swallowing hard, and studying Crowley even harder, probably wondering why he was never allowed to see the demon's eyes.

"Good man," Crowley said, with a pat to his shoulder. "Now, if you unload only half of your wares here today, then tomorrow morning, if you get an early start, you can conceal the rest of it in the cart yard, and take an unused cart to purchase only one half of the usual amount of stone. Then transfer these remainders to the new cart, and charge the King's Trust for the full amount as always, then unload only half here. If you act prudently, you could continue this indefinitely."

"Wouldn't the quarrymen notice if I came though several hours earlier?"

"Do they keep a register?"

"No. But they do notice if I'm late."

"Ah, but do you see the same man each day there, as you do here?"

"No."

"Then what is worrying you?"

Sarrazin thought about it, then looked at Crowley with a mixture of wonderment and suspicion. "What do you want in return?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

"Then why would you do this for me?"

"Like I said, you're a friend," said Crowley. "I'd hate to see your life turned about by a silly game… not to mention an indignant spouse, or possible dishonour in the face of low funds – an elder of the keep, a man of repute. News travels quickly here."

"Well, perhaps just one week," Sarrazin said. "Just to recover most of the funds I have lost to wagering."

He and Crowley shook arms, then unloaded half of the stone, during which the demon suspiciously looked back at the building site several times, just to see who was watching and listening.

Everyone was.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------

News did, indeed, travel fast.

Public disgrace caused human misery, and kinks in the flow of a (metaphoric) ecosystem. Though more often, it caused a descent into despondency and further temptation, leading, it was hoped, to an eternal home alongside Satan and his minions.

And when Crowley had departed from the keep of the Château de Vincennes mid-morning the following day, tongues had been verily wagging about Sarrazin's supposed crimes, and his future in their community. Though, at this point, Sarrazin had only cheated the King's Trust once, it was not a significant enough amount to cause alarm, and it was on the word of a bunch of workmen who had overheard it from an impossible distance. Plus, the carter had been put up to it, by a Master Mason who had mysteriously disappeared after the event. Sarrazin would likely never be brought to justice for it (nor should he be, necessarily), but the rumour alone was enough to take an axe to the tall tree that was Sarrazin's wavering respectability.

This sort of thing could be somewhat delicate work – not all demons were cut out for it. It required a brain. Also, knowledge of human nature, a charming smile, and very often a willingness to get one's hands dirty, either through violence or other full-bodied activities, often requiring tunics and tights wadded up on the floor.

Before crossing back through the Paris city walls, Crowley decided to stop in an alehouse in the Saint-Antoine neighbourhood. Upon being seated, he ordered a glass, then promptly wrestled himself away from three prostitutes, a barman who wanted to sell him food, and a drunken priest who was trying to save his soul. If only that poor man knew how incredibly off-base he was with Crowley… or else just really late.

He had finally found the wherewithal to take a breather at a table in the corner where he reckoned no-one else would bother him, and then…

"Shit," Crowley hissed, seeing who had walked in. "Can't catch a fucking break."

"There you are," Ligur said, with something that resembled a flicker of humour. He was enjoying, just a bit, Crowley's discomfort (as much as he was capable of enjoying anything). He took a seat in the chair across from the red-haired demon who just wanted to have a drink in peace.

"Yep, here I am," Crowely said bitterly. "And here you are. Here we both are. Oh, happy day."

The bartender turned up beside them, and he placed a big, beefy fist on the table between Ligur and Crowley. "If you're gonna sit there, you're gonna have to order some stew and bread, and a glass of ale."

Ligur gave a wave of his hand, and made the bartender completely disappear.

Everyone in the room either stood up with a start, crossed themselves, cursed, or any combination thereof. Several simply cackled with inebriated delight.

Most patrons left the establishment in a state of fright. Only a couple of half-dead drunks remained. And Crowley and Ligur, of course.

"You can't just go doing that," Crowley whispered.

"Why not?"

"You see what happens!"

"What? It scares them? Yeah. It should."

"No, I mean… you'll blow our cover!"

"The Hell does that mean?"

"It's… never mind. What are you doing here, Ligur?"

"I'm here about Sarrazin."

"Yeah, what about him?"

"Well done, there. A couple of us have had a go at him in the past, to no avail."

"Really? It's not like he's a pillar of righteousness."

Ligur shrugged. "Nah, but he's stubborn and smart, and likes to do things his own way. But you, you've got whatever it takes to make Sarrazin disgrace himself."

"Creativity?" Crowley asked.

"What's that?"

"Never mind. So you came just to shake my hand and give me a gold star?"

"No," Ligur said. "I came to tell you to go back to Vincennes and lean on him again."

"What?" Crowley whined. "I just left there! Just got here! Was going to go back into Paris and have a go at the Gauffres before heading back to England."

"A go at the Gauffres? What's that?"

"A new… thing. A confection of some sort made with cheese and flour and soaked in oil."

"Why the Hell would you do a thing like that?"

"Ngk," Crowley groaned, wishing he hadn't said anything. "A friend. He told me about them, and I promised to try it if and when I came through here, and then report back."

"A friend?"

Crowley ignored him. "What do you want from me now? Tempting Sarrazin into cheating the King's Trust wasn't good enough for you lot?"

"People in the keep snickering at him isn't going to bring him enough disgrace," Ligur told him. "Eventually, people forget small things like a few coins stolen. We are going to need something that will get him into big, big trouble. Something that will cause people to think he's deviant, they can't trust him, and come after him with pitchforks and run him out of town. Possibly impale him while running him out of town. Although, we're sort of hoping he survives because we're also hoping he'll lash out and do something terrible as a result – boss thinks he's a real wrath risk."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Really? You're going to have me spend more time on this one guy, who isn't even squeaky clean? Or the opposite?"

"Well, the other side has got him in their sights now as well. You know…" Ligur whispered, pointing upwards. "Don't know how they found out about him, but they did."

"Oh, fantastic. You realise if that's the case, it's likely going to be a no-score draw?"

"Then you'll just have to tip the scales."

"Easier said than done. I've been down that road a time or two. You know that they have an emissary on Earth, and that he's just as clever as me, right?"

"Then be cleverer."

"Pff. That'll be the day."

"Say whatever you like, Crowley, these are orders from down below."

"Yeah, well, you can stick it down below," Crowley muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing… I mean, I said, fine, Ligur, I enjoy following redundant orders. What do you suggest for further disgracing everyone's favourite quarry carter?"

"I don't suggest," Ligur told him, standing up. "That's your job. Figure it out. Be tempting. Use your wiles. Use everything you've got in your arsenal. Head office want this guy. Make sure it happens."

"Ugh," Crowley grunted. "Fine. Can I just have one Gauffre before I go?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what's Crowley going to do to Sarrazin next? Perhaps you might already know...?
> 
> Either way, I'd love a comment just now. Feedback is the #1 motivator to keep writing! Thanks for reading!


	3. THREE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of Crowley's 14th-century saga...
> 
> He has been sent back into Vincennes to mess up Sarrazin's life even more... and he shall oblige. He falls back on an old, tried and true trick of his trade, and we will see him at his most tempting, with the kind of burlesque, blunt-force finesse we all love so! And everyone, including Crowley, knows how effective it is. But it will be a long while before he realizes the truth of the situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the pork fat - sorry if it grosses you out.
> 
> And this is where you, dear reader, might start to understand the game! And by the way, this chapter is NSFW. Just sayin'.
> 
> Enjoy!

LATE MAY, 1337, JUST OUTSIDE PARIS

Crowley stayed in that same alehouse near the Saint-Antoine city gate leading into Paris, for the next forty-eight hours. For the first twelve, he and others helped themselves to libations.

But around dawn, the barman stepped back inside the establishment tentatively, looking around the place like a scared rabbit. He eyed Crowley with trepidation, but the demon pretended not to notice him, via clever use of his dark glasses. The man carefully slipped behind the counter once more, and went about his job as if nothing had happened. He was either in denial that the teleportation incident had been real, or he was just relieved not to see Ligur anywhere. Crowley had absolutely no idea where his finesse-lacking colleague had sent the unfortunate, rotund, purveyor of mediocre ale, but it didn't matter now – he was back, and Crowley didn't have to get his own drinks anymore.

He remained drunk the entire time, of course, though never enough to drown his annoyance at Ligur.

"Well, guess I better get a shift on. Sarrazin's life isn't just gonna run itself into a wall," he said, realising that he was buggered. He said it rather loudly, to no-one in particular. People stared at him briefly, then went back to their ale.

Crowley concentrated hard, and sobered up, re-depositing all the ale he had consumed in the past forty-eight hours back into the barrels from whence they had come. Then, he belched, pounded his chest, said, "Merci beaucoup," with a casual wave, and stepped out onto the street, never having entered the Parisian city walls.

He began immediately the walk back to Vincennes – it was perhaps an hour and a half, and he would arrive there around midnight. It would give him time to scout for a possible cave in the Bois de Vincennes, as he already had a plan in mind. He had spent a month getting a feel for Sarrazin's tells, and there was one big one which he had thought previously irrelevant… he'd have to play on it now. It's not like taking down Sarrazin was going to be difficult… it was just unnecessary, Crowley felt.

Though, his ears had perked up when Ligur had mentioned that Heaven were also interested in the quarry carter. He reckoned he would have sat in that alehouse for nigh on a month, if he weren't more or less guaranteed a crossing-of-paths with his angelic analogue. Not only did he find Aziraphale's company incredibly stimulating (in a myriad of different ways), but he also had hope that the two of them could come up with some kind of arrangement (slightly different from the official Arrangement) that would allow them both to come out of the Sarrazin affair scot-free. The thought of actually behaving in an adversarial manner against the angel did not sit well with Crowley, obviously, but doing nothing would not behove him either.

He reckoned Aziraphale would be trying to find him as well, so determined that locating his angel friend would be his first order of business, after cave-scouting.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

LATE MAY, 1337, VINCENNES

There was, as it turned out, one rather interesting, oddly idyllic cavern beside the lake in the Bois de Vincennes. It would do fine for his purposes. He found it within half an hour of beginning casting about in the wooded area near the Château.

Then, for two days, he avoided any familiar masons and quarrymen, including Sarrazin and his family, and ducked in an out of alehouses and inns, looking for a white-haired angel, possibly with a hankering for Gauffres. He looked and asked about amongst the men shoveling manure, carting wool, and even the drunkards and beggars in the street – sometimes Aziraphale liked to blend in as such.

Because, like him, Aziraphale sometimes needed to get a feel for a "mark" before performing a blessing or miracle. It, like temptation, could be delicate work, and could require a week or ten days' observation.

But Aziraphale was nowhere to be found. Crowley began to wonder if Heaven had sent someone else!

So, a disappointed Crowley gave up and reckoned he'd better cut his losses and just do what he had been ordered to do with Sarrazin, and get out of there. He'd walk back to Paris in a few days, try a Gauffre, then catch up with Aziraphale at a later date, with a full review of the cheesy-wheaty confection.

While he had been failing to locate the former Angel of the Eastern Gate, he had been listening to the folks in the keep, and it did seem that news of Sarrazin's unscrupulous doings had got around. However, the King's Trust hadn't got onto him, and no-one was scandalised quite enough to tell them. Ligur was right: Sarrazin wasn't in deep enough shit to cause real ripples.

On some level, Crowley was kicking himself for not doing the job correctly the first time. After working for a week or so as a mason, and spending each morning talking with Sarrazin, and observing him from afar on other occasions, he realised an important truth about the quarry carter, who was also a sometimes respectable, if flawed, man: he had a wandering eye, but he seemed to prefer men to women. In fact, only the rarest of women could turn his head. Whereas, men of all sorts could distract Sarrazin from a task – including Crowley himself. The seasoned demon was uncommonly adept at recognising this trait in humans… fortunately for Sarrazin, he was quite good at hiding it from other humans. He often acted as though he were sizing up men for haughty, bullshit, class-related purposes. Which was daft, because it's not as if he was a Duke.

And because he was a sometimes respectable man, who already had enough problems with drinking and gambling, Sarrazin had not been dipping his toe in the font of adultery. People talk, and when they do, they are a lot less forgiving of a "sodomite" than a simple lothario, which meant that if Sarrazin were indiscrete in the least, Crowley would pick up on it in the body language of people around him. Plus, there was no particular "law" regarding that sort of thing here in Vincennes yet, but in Paris, dabbling in sticky activities with the same sex could be punishable by death. It was pretty safe to say that here, at the very least, there would be pitchforks and torches… as Ligur had asked for.

If worse came to worst, Crowley figured he could help the man and his family escape the mob in the end. He would just have to be really sneaky about it, and not let his bosses know.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On his third day back in Vincennes, Crowley walked out to the quarry, then watched the men load up Sarrazin's cart – a full load, he noted. The carter was back to doing business on the up-and-up, since he'd been rumoured to have cheated the King's Trust. Crowley followed him back to Vincennes and noted that he was now avoiding the royal commerce post where he'd been going for months, and instead went the long way round the grounds of the Château to a different post, where no-one knew him (supposedly). He then delivered his wares to a different sector of the building site, and returned his cart for the day.

Outside the cart yard, Crowley contrived to meet him.

"Oh – hello, Corneille," Sarrazin said, trying to hide his surprise, as he exited through the iron gate, and found standing there the man who had suggested he defraud the Trust. "Fancy seeing you again."

"Sarrazin, I wish to apologise," Crowley said.

"Fine," said Sarrazin with exaggerated evenness. "Apology accepted. May I go?"

Crowley was taken aback. He wasn't used to people being quite so evasive. Especially since, though Crowley was taller, Sarrazin was more solidly built, and could probably easily overpower a human of Crowley's size.

There was a pause while a visibly nervous Sarrazin seemed to study the demon, and contemplate his next move.

"You understand that I was only trying to help a friend?" Crowley asked.

"I understand," answered the carter, swallowing hard, standing stiffly.

Crowley looked him over very obviously. "I can see that I will have to earn your trust again," he said, rather softly.

"Erm… no, Corneille, you are forgiven," said Sarrazin.

Those words burned in Crowley's ears just a bit, but he shoved down the bile, got quite close to his mark, and said intimately, "Come on, Sarrazin. I know you. I know how you move. How you speak."

"Do you really?" Sarrazin asked, his eyes suddenly wide, and transferring to Crowley's dark glasses. He seemed to search for answers behind the panes, in eyes he could not see.

And in this moment, the demon knew: this was not going to be a several-days-long operation. He had already more or less laid the groundwork for this temptation, while laying the groundwork for the Château de Vincennes. The look in Sarrazin's eyes said it all.

So now, Crowley laid it on thick. It was all about making amends… and innuendoes. Very carefully.

"I do," Crowley lilted, now daring to place his hand on the carter's arm, and squeeze gently. "I have watched you. I have studied you… and I think you have studied me."

"Perhaps."

"And I can tell, without a doubt, my dear, dear friend, that you are experiencing agitation with me. Something is making you squirm."

"Corneille…"

"You haven't forgiven me, and I cannot blame you. That's it, isn't it? What else could it be?"

"I have, though. Forgiven you."

"No. You are… stiff," Crowley whispered, emphasising that last word. "Your mouth gapes. Your breath is quick. Your entire body likely feels prickles of heat."

"How…"

"I know what it feels like to be teeming with a certain sensibility, and desire satisfaction, Sarrazin." Crowley's voice was low, tempting, private.

"Do you, now?"

"Oh, yes," Crowley practically sang, practically into his mark's ear. "So whatever you would implore of me, my friend, do not hold back. Because I feel that if I have offended you, I shall lay awake all night suffering and sighing. Constantly, I will recall in my heart your words, your face, so that pain will strike me."

"Yes?"

"Yes, my honour demands it. That is, until I have granted to you the catharsis you require, so as to be purged of your bubbling emotion. I request – no, I demand – that you allow me to do penance. Let me give you recompense. Gratification, if you will."

The tone of Crowley's voice and body language could leave no doubt as to what he was proposing, but now, he allowed his hand to wander down to Sarrazin's. For a moment he simply grasped it affectionately, but then he began to lightly stroke the index finger.

Sarrazin looked at him with a mixture of disbelief and fear. "You're a Master Mason. You are the head of a group of men…"

"Yes, and you are a respectable quarry carter. There should exist no quarrel between us. Quarrels do not become men like us, don't you agree?"

Sarrazin's eyes grew even bigger, and his breathing grew heavier. "I do, yes."

"That way lies only pain and sorrow, hidden wants, and the wrong manner of secrets," Crowley told him, still speaking softly, still teasing the index finger. "Secrets that are bound to unhinge themselves."

"Oh, dear God," Sarrazin croaked, closing his eyes, and swallowing hard.

"Indeed," Crowley sighed in his ear. "So what's a bit of a duel of lances between two men? Merely a way of releasing a certain rising steam, and settling the entanglement in which we find ourselves."

"All right – duel. Lances. Releasing…"

"Do you understand and agree?"

"I can hardly say no," Sarrazin gulped, finally now opening his eyes. "Corneille, Master Mason."

Crowley smirked. "I like that." He took a pause, and then, "Do you know of a cave in the Bois, beside the lake?"

"I have heard talk of it."

"It would be a good place for a duel, wouldn't you say?"

"Of course."

"Tonight is a new moon, and I see clouds coming in. There will likely be rain, and scant light. An extraordinarily dark night to accomplish our settling of needs."

"Good, yes."

"Midnight."

"Midnight," repeated the carter with a quivering voice.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

True to form, Crowley spent the rest of the day in yet another alehouse. Actually, it was an inn – slightly different. He did this for three reasons.

He was only thirty-seven years in, but already he detested the fourteenth century and wanted to spend it legless. But his superiors would not allow him to turn back into a snake for the ensuing sixty-three summers (he had checked), so he had to settle for the other kind of legless.

So, his first reason for patronising the inn was to pass the time in an uncaring stupor. The fourteenth century was bad enough, but he also just didn't fancy the carter much. He was proud of a well-executed temptation, sure, but the man himself he could take or leave. Though, he reminded himself that he'd done plenty of this sort of thing with both women and men whom he didn't fancy – in the end, it was usually kind of fun. Fortunately, he had a supernaturally virile corporeal form that would perform in any situation, and he had a fundamental appreciation for the human body and the pleasures it could yield.

The second reason for going to an inn was to engage some of the townsfolk, and so he played at cards. As his fellow players got drunker and drunker, it was easy to convince them that there was a large vein of gold in the cave in the Bois, and that tonight, a moonless night, would be the ideal night to go spelunking. The fact that it was raining only meant that no-one else would be up there! It was nonsense, but… well, they were sozzled, and not hugely clever to begin with. All the better to cause a panic and disgrace.

The third reason was, he could stop time for about twenty seconds while the innkeeper was out of the kitchen, and swipe a large handful of pork fat. He deposited it in a leather pouch at his belt that was meant to hold an eating knife. He miracled a clean hand, and continued at cards.

Just before twelve, he settled up with the gamblers (read: took their money), and began to walk toward the cave. It was chucking down rain, and the streets were ridiculously dark at this time of night with the new moon hiding behind the thick clouds.

When he arrived at the cave, Sarrazin was already there. Crowley miracled himself dry, shed his cloak, and assessed.

There were four natural archways that looked out onto the lake. Ordinarily, anyway. Tonight, the sheets of rain obscured just about everything, and the noise of it hammering the body of water and the rock surrounding them was deafening. Crowley had been planning to say something sexy and suggestive at this juncture, but he knew he would not be heard.

Sarrazin was standing with his back to Crowley, in the brown burlap cloak that many men wore when the weather turned cold. He knew this because Sarrazin's was distinctive. It had a layered patch of yellowing linen sewn into the back of the hood, and just now, he could barely see a figure in the dark, with that light-coloured patch. Absently, Crowley noticed that there was no lamp lit in the vicinity – Sarrazin must have snuffed it out and wisely stowed it away from the rain.

The carter did not hear the demon, whom he believed to be a rather skilled and powerful Master Mason, approach. He flinched just a bit as Crowley's hands landed on his shoulders. But when the skilled demonic fingertips began to dig into the thick shoulder muscles, he felt the man relax, and submit to the little massage.

Crowley kept his left hand working, and allowed his right hand to wander down Sarrazin's right arm, then round front across his chest. He embraced the carter, who leaned back into him easily, willingly. He smelled wet burlap and a big blast of late-night rain.

He took Sarrazin's response as a good sign, and next allowed his left hand to wander down to the fleshy round buttocks hidden beneath the cloak, and squeeze. Sarrazin took in a quick breath, but did not resist, and at that, Crowley felt a wave of affection and attraction toward this man, and began to look forward to what was to come. His erection came rather easily to fruition as he kneaded the shapely arse, and felt it clench with the man's arousal. To verify, his right hand slid down the front of the cloak, looking for a tell-tale bulge.

And it was there – bulging like anything. He ran his hand up and down the bulge a few times, and was delighted to find that it was quite thick and long. He always preferred fucking a respectably-endowed man, even if he never received the benefit of it himself. Just stroking off a thick one could be great fun, so he fondled this one through the fabric to see how much bigger it might get. Indeed, he felt it harden and grow a bit more, felt it bob and respond, and felt, once again, the man's body ease back into his. The carter was giving in, but still tentative, and allowing him, Crowley, to do all of the work. This was fine – it was possible that Sarrazin had never done this with another man before… it did come with a bit of a learning curve for some.

As Crowley handled Sarrazin's cock and rear cheek, he realised that the man must be wearing precious little beneath his cloak. This emboldened him, and he bent down and inspected the hem. Underneath, he found a linen nightshirt, which Crowley promptly pulled up, dragging both hands along the healthy, muscular legs. He appreciated the shape and strength of the man's build, and then exposed Sarrazin's round bottom to the cold. He squeezed both cheeks again, then couldn't help but press his own bulging pelvis into it with a muted grunt. He hadn't expected to feel so inflamed by this body, but he found it absolutely luscious. Suddenly he couldn't wait to get his arm fastened around this man's waist and his cock buried between those fleshy round cheeks.

He opened the leather compartment at his hip and dipped two fingers into the slick pork fat and scooped up a measure of it. He slipped those two fingers between the rounded cheeks before him, and probed at Sarrazin's rear hole. He heard a sharp intake of breath as the fingers slipped past the elastic ring at the opening, and felt it contract as the man tensed. He took a deep, cleansing breath and let Sarrazin hear it as a model for what to do, then pried the carter's feet slightly apart with his own. Crowley pressed forward against his upper back, encouraging him to bend forward. Sarrazin seemed to get the hint, leant toward the archway in front of him and braced his hands against either side. His waist now crooked at a one-hundred-forty-degree angle or so, just enough to give himself, and Crowley, room to work.

Crowley noted, as the man's hands grasped at the rough rock on either side of himself, the beauty of the fingers and knuckles and nails. The digits were not particularly shapely, but they were oddly pristine for a person who handled large slabs of rock.

But it was a revelation that, alas went no further, because the sensuous quarry carter was relaxing into the event, and Crowley was rapt. He pressed his fingers further into Sarrazin's backside, and then pushed them apart to make room. He added a third finger to the mix, and felt a vibration as the man groaned with the pleasure. This gave Crowley a rush of power, so he began to give his new friend a bit of a fingering. In and out, first shallow strokes, rather slow, growing insistent, testing the waters to see how Sarrazin's arms would hold out against forward pressure… but ultimately Crowley knew, of course, that he was a stocky barrel of a man who could absorb this, and any sort of pounding he could give. And he couldn't wait to give it.

Still, Crowley toyed with him, feeling his own cock swelling against his tights at the front, and making his tunic billow out like the tent of a royal travelling party. Once again, he slowed his strokes, then worked up to a good, solid widened fingerfuck, that forced Sarrazin to brace hard against the arch, and pushed out low grunts, muffled by the deafening rain. Crowley didn't want this to end - this thick, yielding body was so very provocative to him, so luscious and agreeable, and the vibrations made him want to devour.

And at last, Crowley was thrilled to find that he couldn't take it anymore, and he pulled his fingers free of the appreciative, stretched arse. He lifted his tunic and pressed his tights down to his knees, and his cock bobbed freely in the cool air, eager, stone-hard, and leaking. He scooped out another two fingers of pork fat, and slathered it all over the readied shaft, just before guiding it to the waiting hole, and pressing it inside. He wrapped his arms around Sarrazin's waist, and drove it home, burying himself balls-deep, and grunting as he did so.

He began to move immediately. He pulled back almost all the way, then drove forward again. The friction, the warmth, the tightness, the slippery, the smell of the rain, it was all exquisite – almost painfully so – and he could not stop himself from pulling back again, then pressing forward… then again, and again. For a few moments, he leaned his head back and simply enjoyed very slowly, very firmly, fucking a quarry carter with whom he had had merely a contrived friendship, based on lies. That's all a temptation shag ever was, but this felt divine somehow. It was unique, and exhilarating, and enthralling, and in his passion, he was driven to run his left hand up the man's barrel chest and grasp at the closely-shaven chin.

He pressed against that lovely face, and encouraged Sarrazin to rest the back of his head against Crowley's shoulder. Sarrazin did so, and the hood of his cloak fell down over his eyes. Crowley could hear panting, just barely, in the rain, but it inflamed him and he began to fuck a little faster and harder. Two of his left-hand fingers crawled into Sarrazin's wet hot mouth, and the latter sucked like a man starved. Crowley slipped his right hand, still lubricated with pork fat, underneath the linen night shirt, grasped the impressively thick, distended shaft, and tugged, expertly bringing the formerly boring quarry carter forward toward orgasm.

Their bodies found a rhythm miraculously quickly, as though they had been dancing this dance for aeons. Crowley's hips pressed forward again and again insistently, and the thick body before him bore down at intervals and accepted it with hunger, and cathartic revelation.

Crowley's own body was on the rise – his experience was a revelation of a sort, as well. He had rarely, if ever, enjoyed a temptation fuck this much, and was absolutely sparking with the combination of sensations – his fingers being sucked by a strong, scorching pair of lips, his other hand slipping back and forth over a big, eager phallus that was just about ready to erupt, and feeling his own cock sheathed over and over in a body that trembled, buzzed, and flowed everywhere, with every fantastic stroke.

Suddenly, it was too much. He grunted and released a big, tight gush of warm, slippery come, followed by another, then another. Little explosions filled his mind, prickles overwhelmed his body as he filled the arse of the somehow magnificent man before him.

At the same time, the other man's body tensed and he felt the same jets of liquid pleasure spurt out over his thumb and forefinger, as the lovely, large shaft in his hand throbbed, bobbed, and jerked with the last motions of Crowley's fingers.

They stayed like this for a few long moments, Sarrazin breathing hard, Crowley still grasping him in front, and buried in him in back. Both needed a chance to catch their breath, and the carter fell forward a bit, once again, bracing himself against the sides of the archway. They must have stumbled a bit backward in their ardour, because they were now just slightly further away from the archway, and the barrel-chested man's body was crooked forward quite a lot now.

They both felt crippled with the sensation, the subsiding pleasure and explosion and wonder.

But then they heard a noise to their left.

It was distinctly the sound of three drunken gamblers, stumbling into a cave to find a fictitious vein of gold. The rain had been too loud for them to hear, and anyway, Crowley had orchestrated this.

Suddenly, he felt ill. This might have been the fuck of his life, or very nearly so, and he didn't want it to end. Suddenly, he very much did not want Sarrazin run out of town by and angry mob with pitchforks. Before, he had been merely unsure that such a thing was truly necessary – now, the idea sickened him.

For a few daft moments, he wondered if he could cover up the situation somehow, and not let the gamblers know what was transpiring.

But in a few seconds, one of them found the wherewithal to turn on the lamp they had been concealing under their robes due to the rain, and there could be no mistake. They saw in the cave one man bent forward with his cloak pulled up over his arse, and another man standing behind him, pressed in close, with his tights down around his knees.

There was no way they could be convinced that this was anything other than what it was. Humans were idiots sometimes, but glossing this over would be asking too much of their skills of blindness and stupidity.

One of the men blasphemed in his surprise, the other two just gaped at them.

It was Sarrazin who first found the presence of mind to flee. Like a flash of brown burlap, he was suddenly disengaged from Crowley, and disappearing out the other side of the cave.

Crowley did the same about five seconds later, leaving his cloak behind, and ungracefully pulling up his tights as he ran.

Unfortunately, in the dark, in the rain, outside the cave in the woods, he was unable to find Sarrazin.

Although, much to his relief, when he went to find him in the morning (for what, he wasn't sure – apologies, overtures, damage-control?), the home was empty, the stove stone-cold, and all signs pointed to the entire family having fled during the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... thoughts? Feelings? Predictions?
> 
> I would LOVE a comment from you... why not drop me a line and make my day! Thanks so much for reading!


	4. FOUR

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And we've hopped back forward in time to the twenty-first century, to the same night where we left off - just after the Unpocalypse, and Aziraphale is staying over at Crowley's place. In chapter 1, they more or less worked out how to deal with surviving their executions, but as you will see, they are far from absolute certainty that it will work! Faced with the possibility of ugly death in the very near future, how do our ineffable pair sieze the moment?
> 
> We have not abandoned the cave, Sarrazin, or the fourteenth century, rest assured!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two thoughts:
> 
> 1\. Just FYI, this does not represent, particularly, my head-canon. It's just one of the possibilities. Not that anyone asked.
> 
> 2\. I read a thing on Pinterest that was a list of things that the Good Omens fandom had collectively decided on its own, and one of them was that Aziraphale must have had a fling with Oscar Wilde. I find this plausible, and hilarious. So I decided to insert a nod to that bit of fandom weirdness. :-)
> 
> Enjoy!

MID-AUGUST, MODERN-DAY LONDON

Aziraphale was sat in the middle section of Crowley's U-shaped sofa at around three o'clock in the morning. He wiggled his bum into the charcoal-grey microfibre, and plunged his fork into the carrot-spice cupcake with foie-gras cream cheese icing, resting on the plate in his hand.

Forty-five minutes previously, Aziraphale had become peckish (of course), so Crowley had ordered some sweet treats delivered from a bakery down the street. Two cupcakes - the carrot-spice with foie-gras cream cheese, and an American-style "S'mores" with chocolate cake, marshmallow icing, and a cinnamon graham-cracker streusel topping. Also, an apple rhubarb tart, salted caramel pudding with potato crisps stuck in it, and something called a Churro. The two of them had frequented the place numerous times, and they both knew that the staff worked round-the-clock shifts to keep their wares fresh at all hours.

Crowley couldn't care less about the desserts themselves; for him, the pleasure was in watching his best friend consume them.

The creamy carrot confection entered Aziraphale's mouth, and the angel's eyes practically rolled back in his head. "Oh, dear," he moaned. "This is absolutely gorgeous!"

"Yeah?" Crowley asked, watching, drinking from a newly opened bottle of red, lounging on his side and trying not to fondle himself. "How gorgeous?"

"Mm, sinfully so," Aziraphale answered without irony. "Want a taste?"

Crowley smirked. "Yes, but I'll wait."

"Come now, Crowley, we have to celebrate somehow!"

Crowley held up the bottle of wine in his hand, and announced, "This is all the celebration I need."

"You celebrate that way all the time," Aziraphale complained, putting another bite into his mouth. "Tonight is something special."

Crowley's yellow eyes were drawn toward the ceiling, and he smiled a bit. "I suppose you're right about that. It's not every day you work out how to outwit the forces of Heaven and Hell, and prevent your own hideous execution, is it?"

"No, indeed," Aziraphale agreed, swallowing his second bite, tucking into a third. "So we're agreed – we swap bodies at dawn, and leave the flat thereafter, making sure to be out of here well before eight a.m."

"Yep – that's the plan."

"And you'll go round to the bookshop and inspect everything?"

"I will."

"Because I really do feel reality shifting…"

"Yeah, me too."

"That's got to be Adam. He'd put things right again, wouldn't he?"

"Well, I would think so," Crowley answered, with a slight shrug. "Maybe not consciously, but we're still in a window of time when reality listens to him. He very likely wants it all to go away, so..."

"Quite right. So, we meet in St. James' Park at ten?"

"Yep."

"I suppose I'll have to take a taxi," Aziraphale muttered.

"Yeah, it's better that way," Crowley assured him. "We're going to be enough like sitting ducks at St. James' park."

"Again with the ducks, Crowley? Good grief," Aziraphale said, rolling his eyes, and sliding the fork into his mouth again.

"Ducks are amazing – we could all learn something from them," Crowley quipped, taking a swig.

"What the Hell does that mean?"

"I don't know. But I do know that I don't need a cupcake to celebrate. If nothing else, I don't fancy us counting our chickens before they hatch."

"You and poultry," Aziraphale muttered.

Crowley switched to a low, lilting voice, "Though, if pressed, I'll tell you how I'd like to celebrate, angel."

"All right. How?"

And when the demon didn't answer for a few moments, it occurred to the angel suddenly that he had just heard quite an obvious innuendo, and all he could think to do was snap his head to the left to look askance at Crowley.

But when he did, he found the demon staring into the wine bottle contemplatively.

"Angel, I think we'll survive tomorrow," Crowley said, rather low, rather secretively. "If you're right, and Agnes Nutter has never been wrong, and we're interpreting her words correctly, then our plan is pretty solid."

"Yes, I should say so. And I am correct about Agnes Nutter, Crowley. Everyone who knows anything about books of prophecy knows it, as well."

"Fair enough. But let's just acknowledge that there exists a possibility that we've got it wrong, you and I. Agnes may have fed us a recipe for a crisp golden brioche, but we may have turned it into big, hard, burning balls of black dough. It wouldn't be the first time we've bollocksed things up."

"I love brioche," Aziraphale sighed as he took the last bite of his cupcake.

"Would you please focus?" Crowley admonished. "There's a chance that our swapping bodies will do absolutely no good, and we will simply spend our last hours of existence in each other's skin."

"Well, if that's true, then frankly, I can think of worse ways to end my life than inside of you," Aziraphale said, again, without irony. He leaned forward and placed his plate and fork carefully on the coffee table, then folded his hands in his lap again.

At this, Crowley chuckled, and agreed, "Right back at you, angel."

"Crowley, you're trying to guarantee the outcome," Aziraphale counselled. "Don't you know after six thousand years of trifling with the natural course of events, that you can't do that?"

"I'm not trying to guarantee the outcome… although it would be nice," Crowley argued. "I'm just saying, angel, we might die tomorrow. We might cease to exist, and never see each other again."

Aziraphale was quite for a long few moments, then said, "I must admit, I'm incredibly saddened by the prospect of that."

"And if that happens…"

"Yes?"

"Won't you have regrets? Things you never said? Questions you never asked?"

Aziraphale frowned, and turned his entire body to his left, to face his best friend head-on. "What are you saying, Crowley?"

"Well, a little while ago, you said you had something to say to me. Something to tell me, that you thought could wait until after tomorrow unfolds."

"And?"

"And don't you think you should just say it?"

"It's not that simple, Crowley."

"You know it is that simple, Aziraphale."

"No, I don't."

"Are you really afraid of…"

"…of?"

"Of not getting the response that you want?"

Aziraphale studied his bent knee. "Perhaps."

"Are you mad? Seriously… are you barking, buggering bonkers?" Crowley practically shouted.

"No, I'm not. I fear we don't have enough time tonight for me to tell you all that I need to tell you, and for us to come to terms."

"It doesn't take any time at all! It's three words. Three syllables – that's it!" There was a pause, and then Crowley said, "If you can't say them, then I will!"

"Crowley… please… I'm not… I can't…" Aziraphale cut across, slightly frantic. He finally caught his breath and sighed. "I'm not ready right this second."

"Okay," Crowley sighed, exasperated. "Then let me ask you this. If you had it to do all over again – all six thousand years – knowing what you know now, about the holy water and the Apocalypse, pissing off Satan, getting possibly executed tomorrow. All the close calls over the years, and the skulking about we've done, the Arrangement, spending half a century banging on my door trying to wake me up…"

"Ah yes, I remember that!"

"Even knowing all of that rubbish was going to come out of it, would you still… fraternise?"

"Absolutely, Crowley," Aziraphale said, his voice whining like a well-tuned violin, unhesitating, unblinking.

Crowley swallowed hard. "I'm very glad to hear you say that."

Aziraphale smiled. "I can't imagine how dull my life would have been without you in it."

"It would've been deathly dull," Crowley agreed, nodding emphatically. "Mind-numbing. Like a Rodgers and Hammerstein concert on a solo clarinet."

Aziraphale shuddered. "Oh, do stop – that's too horrible to think of."

"And I can't imagine what a fiend I'd have become without your influence," Crowley confessed. "I mean, I know it's my job to be a sadistic arsehole, but I'm really quite glad that I'm merely a mischievous prat."

"Aw, well, you're not evil by nature, Crowley. I haven't done anything except give you the occasional prophylactic, when needed."

"You really don't listen to yourself, do you?"

"Beg pardon?"

"So, angel," Crowley said, with some flourish. "Now that I've got you talking, you might as well keep talking, eh?"

"Well…"

"Assuming we survive tomorrow…"

"Oh, now we're assuming survival?"

"Assuming we don't turn into little piles of goo and/or ash, and our souls don't dissipate into an unconscious haze, and assuming we can scare the pants off our respective employers well and truly enough that they leave us the fuck alone for a while…"

"Yes?"

"Well, there will be no more tempting, no more blessings, no more miracles to do," Crowley said, bottom lip stuck out. "No more Arrangement. So, what do we do with ourselves?"

"I hadn't thought about that."

Crowley now sat up, and put his feet properly on the floor. He was sitting caddy-corner to his angelic companion, and their knees were now touching. "I mean, what do we do next?" he asked. "With no more work for us to do on either side, there will be no reason for us ever to cross paths again. Unless we want to."

"Unless we want to," Aziraphale echoed.

"And I want to."

Aziraphale locked eyes with him. "I want to, as well."

Crowley dared to reach out and take his hand. Unlike holding his hand on the bus, this did not feel particularly natural.

"I know you said you didn't want to do this until tomorrow when all was said and done, and that you have too much to say, but…"

"It's all right, Crowley. I can see this is important to you."

"I really didn't mean to force you to say what you weren't ready to say… it's just, angel, I don't think I could have the courage to face tomorrow unless I know… unless…"

"Shush," Aziraphale whispered, squeezing his best friend's hand. "I know. I was wrong. You were right."

"I was?"

"Of course," Aziraphale answered with a warm, incredibly lovely smile.

Crowley crumpled to pieces on the inside each time he saw that smile. "I can't believe how much I love you, and I've never said." It just came tumbling out of his mouth like a waterfall.

Aziraphale's smile morphed into something different – adoration, the expression of a deeply-seated bond. "And I can't believe I was afraid to say those three words, after all this time. I love you. They're short, sweet, and I find saying them very freeing."

Tears spilled out of Crowley's reptilian eyes for the third time in twenty-four hours, and the third time since 1929. He smiled radiantly as they did so, then wrapped his free hand round his angel's jowl and pulled him forward into a sweet kiss, a quick embrace of lips and sighs. So simple, perfect, common, and necessary for the rhythm of life on this planet… yet the first for them. It was much more than lips and sighs – it was a whole new life.

And then it became something else. Crowley turned his head and opened his mouth, prompting his companion to do the same, and their tongues met. A sweet, quick kiss on the lips suddenly became long, probing, promising. It became a dance, a hot, searching language all its own. Crowley's hand wrapped round the back of Aziraphale's head, their lips sucked more tightly, the sighs turned to groans, and suddenly their bodies were flush up against each other in the centre of the "U".

Crowley pulled away long enough to say, "Take off your jacket."

Aziraphale obeyed as Crowley pulled his bowtie loose, unbuttoned his top button, and kissed the warm flesh beneath.

"Oh, that's… oh, … oh…" Aziraphale moaned.

"Come here," Crowley commanded, and with a swift motion he had pulled the angel onto his back, and he was lying beside him, their lips still pressing in. Crowley's fingers undid two more of Aziraphale's buttons, and then snaked underneath the garment to feel his companion's warmth, his curving chest, and the soft hair covering it. He caressed the flesh, and kissed the lips, cheek, then neck as though there was no tomorrow.

And neither of them was unaware of the strain, the arousal, the tightening of their trousers, the urgency that lie just below the surface.

But that's as far as it went. Awareness.

Along with new revelations, new certainties, and new beginnings.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------

An hour and a half passed this way, and Crowley wondered if, in six thousand years, he had ever had a more beautiful, more fulfilling, more longed-for experience. He had done just about everything, sexually and otherwise. He had touched every kind of person in every kind of way. He had experienced heat and passion and explosive, obscene brands of lust that he reckoned would turn Aziraphale's face crimson. But spending an hour and a half supine on the sofa with the Angel of the Eastern Gate, feeling warm, loved, inflamed but secure? This could beat it all, hands down. The simple pleasure of his fingertips and palm resting against the soft skin of Aziraphale's chest, and getting to devour the angel's lips and tongue with his own…

…it made the frustration worthwhile. His body was aching for release, but he reckoned they would get there soon enough. Or perhaps they wouldn't…

"Angel?" he said quietly, after a few minutes of lying with his forehead pressed to Aziraphale's temple.

"Mm?"

"Now I know why you were reluctant to open this door. Knowing what we could lose if they execute us tomorrow…"

"Ah, yes, but haven't we really known this all along? This love, that could have been lost at any moment throughout the last six millennia?"

Crowley sighed contentedly. "Yes, I suppose we have."

"The only difference is, now I can die knowing what it is to be kissed by you."

"And I could disappear from existence knowing the exact texture and contour of your chest."

"And I…"

"What are we saying? This is daft!" Crowley exclaimed, sitting up. "I'm ninety per cent sure we're going to be fine. And if we are, we have each other! And I am chuffed about that!"

Aziraphale sat up as well. They were now back to sitting side-by-side on a sofa. "That is a lot, Crowley. You're right."

"And once it's all over, to Hell with all of this pent-up whatever-this-is," Crowley insisted. He took Aziraphale's cheeks in both hands and said, "I will show you the full spectrum, angel. You've been kissed now, but after we both survive the hellfire and holy water… oh, then, angel…"

"Crowley?"

Not having heard him, Crowley planted one more wet kiss on the angel's lips, and said, with a wicked flick of the eyebrow, "I'll show you what else this mouth can do."

"Oh, dear," Aziraphale whined, a bit derailed, his voice quivering. "I think I shall enjoy that very much."

"You bet your arse you will," Crowley sang, letting go, but now placing wet kisses all the way down Aziraphale's neck. "And that's just the tip of the iceberg. Oh, I can't wait to introduce you to real pleasure. I know you, angel, and I know you're a glutton… once you discover what your body can do for you…"

"Crowley?"

"You'll never want to stop. Ever again."

"Crowley!" Aziraphale said, now loudly.

"What?" Crowley asked, a bit nonplussed, pulling away.

"I've been trying to tell you something!"

"What is it?"

Aziraphale sighed exasperatedly. "It's what I was saying before that I didn't want to discuss until later. It's the thing that makes telling you I love you… well, a bit complicated. It's the thing that I was afraid of not having time to explain."

"Whatever it is, it's fine, Aziraphale. Nothing could change my mind."

"But since you've been banging on about introducing me to the pleasures of the flesh…"

"What? Too much too soon?"

"No," Aziraphale sighed. "It's that I… erm… oh, good Lord, this is so difficult."

"Just say it."

"This is where the fear comes in."

"Fear of what?"

"Fear that you'll think less of me," said the angel, worry written all over his face. "Once you understand. What I've done."

"I'm a demon. I'm sure I can cope."

"I know you can. But you should know, Crowley, before you begin thinking of initiating me into carnal passions that, erm… well, 'initiating' isn't the word you ought to be looking for."

"Oh."

"I'm not as pure as the driven snow. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. I'm not either."

"I know that, of course. Temptation brings with it myriad indulgences. It only makes sense that several of them would be of a sexual nature."

"Several. Right." Then, after thinking about it for a few moments, Crowley piped up again, with more surprise and indignation in his voice than he had intended to betray. "You mean you've been performing 'blessings' in the same way?"

"No, no! That's not how blessings work!"

"Temptations, then? On my behalf?"

"No!"

"So, what… you've dabbled? I can live with that."

"I wouldn't say I've dabbled."

"It was Oscar Wilde, wasn't it? I knew it! I knew I shouldn't have slept so long in the 19th century! I should have set my alarm for 1880, and no later!"

"It wasn't Oscar Wilde! Would you stop it with Oscar Wilde? I found him tedious in the extreme. So self-important and he just made me miss you all the more."

"Then what are you trying to tell me, angel? Just spit it out!"

"What time is it?"

"A little before five."

"Well, then, I suppose I do have time to tell you a story."

"Yes! Please!"

Aziraphale took a deep breath, steadied himself, and said, "Dabbling is not what I've done – that would not be very typical of me at all. But there is a singular incident that makes me… well, not as pure as I would like to be for you."

"You would like to be pure... for me?"

"I would love to say that I've saved myself for you. I would love to be able to offer you myself as something untouched, unsullied, that's only yours."

"I've never had that."

"I know."

"Oh, angel. That's… that's…" Crowley sputtered. "Oh, angel."

"But I cannot offer you that, not entirely. And I won't feel good about being with you until you know everything."

"All right. I'm listening."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are verrrrrry appreciated! If you are out there reading, let me know what you think! Thank you for reading! :-)


	5. FIVE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And we're back in the fourteenth century again, to hear Aziraphale's story. (This is the story he is telling to Crowley, in the twenty-first.) It, too, will take two chapters to cover.
> 
> So, why, exactly, isn't he as "pure" as he would have liked to remain, now that he and his demonic companion are finally putting their long-held passion to the test?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I disclaim: I am not a medieval scholar, and I have no desire to be come one! So, everyday life, the ins and outs of their existences in the keep, building a castle, etc. I did my best!
> 
> Enjoy!

LATE MAY, 1337, THE CELESTIAL KINGDOM OF ALMIGHTY GOD

"Aziraphale!" bellowed the crisp, clean voice of the Archangel Gabriel, who was entering the chamber from the other end. The sound of a large door slamming shut echoed through the space, and Gabriel could be aggressively friendly. The lowly Principality was a little shaken.

"Gabriel," Aziraphale responded curtly, unable to hide his surprise. He swallowed hard. "You – you startled me. I was just, er, wrapped up in admiring the remodel. It's very chic."

Gabriel walked swiftly toward him, with his usual big smile. "Yes, we love it," he said, looking round the room. "It's the newest thing. And when I say new, I mean, so new it hasn't even happened yet!"

"Beg pardon?"

Gabriel laughed, and squeezed Aziraphale's shoulders with a camaraderie which the latter did not feel. Mostly because he knew it was more or less all window-dressing for a daft and vengeful Archangel, who would smite him without thinking twice, if he knew half the things his Earth-bound subordinate done.

"This is Vincennes!" Gabriel exclaimed, gesturing around the room. "Isn't it fantastic?"

"Yes – quite so," Aziraphale agreed.

They were in Heaven's main receiving room, which, last month, had been decorated like the main hall of the Louvre between the King and Queen's chambers, complete with a view out the window of the Seine, and also Schloss Schwerin in the near distance, Mugdock, Windsor Castle, and Palazzo Vecchio.

Today, however, the room had completely changed. In spite of the fact that one could no longer see out the windows because they were now situated much too high, Aziraphale had to admit that the effect was much lighter, freer, airier, and he liked the change. There seemed to be white stone that pulled all the way up to an extremely high ceiling, and peaked in the new "Gothic" style, with ornately decorated joints. On either end of the chamber, there was a gigantic rose window, and on either side, there were gravity-defying, lightly coloured stained-glass windows that made the whole room sparkle.

"I'll miss the views, but I've got to say, the Almighty outdid Herself this time," Gabriel said, admiring his boss' handiwork.

"And you said it's... Vincennes?"

"Yes! This is the interior of the upcoming Château," Gabriel answered. "And it's funny you should ask, because that's where you're headed, Aziraphale!"

"To the Château de Vincennes? Isn't that a hunting lodge?"

"Indeed, it is – well, was. It's been more or less levelled, and they're building a new château on the site – you know, thicker, taller, more impenetrable – but it isn't finished, not even close. This room you're seeing… it doesn't even exist yet!" Gabriel laughed. "But no, you're not going to the château, you're going to the keep, surrounding it."

"Ah yes," Aziraphale said with a smile. "Labourers are much easier to access, and much more in need of miracles, I find."

"Exactly, Aziraphale, exactly. And… hey…" Gabriel said, turning sideways, yet keeping Aziraphale's eye.

"Yes, Gabriel?"

"You haven't said anything about the new duds!" Gabriel exclaimed rather playfully, modelling royal blue tights, a white velveteen tunic with his own Archangel symbol (which looked like someone had tried to write a capital "M" and then had their elbow nudged halfway through), embroidered all over in the same blue. This was all capped by a heavy, sky-blue velvet cape, that lay across his shoulders rather crookedly, which was the current fashion, for human aristocracy.

"Oh, of course I noticed – how could one not? I just didn't want to embarrass you," Aziraphale told him.

It was a lie, of course. Aziraphale had only just now, since he'd mentioned it, noticed that Gabriel was appearing in new clothes. Or rather, he had constructed a new holographic image resembling new clothes, so as to surround and ornament his celestial form.

"Ah, well, I appreciate that," said the Archangel. "One mustn't become too vain. Still, one does want a new garment or two, to match the new surroundings!"

"Yes, quite," Aziraphale said, uneasily, wondering when they were going to get down to whatever business was awaiting him in Vincennes.

Gabriel looked over Aziraphale, in his basic tan tights and ivory-coloured jacket that buttoned up the front. "You might want to consider shoring up your own togs – just a thought."

Aziraphale cleared his throat, not wishing to remain part of this conversation any longer than necessary. "So, what am I to do in the keep of Vincennes?" he asked.

"There's a family there called Sarrazin – husband Paul L'Apôtre, wife Tiphaine, three kids. He's a quarry carter, working on the château. Brings stone back and forth between the quarry and the building site, gets paid by weight."

"I see. And?"

"Well, let's just say that some recent events have put him in our sights… we'll call him a battleground soul. He could be tipped in either direction with the right sort of influence."

"Recent events?"

"Yes, something to do with the château itself, concealing some of his product, and collecting additional payment for something he was not actually delivering… I'm not super-clear on the details," Gabriel confessed, then he laughed. "I don't really understand human affairs anyway!"

Aziraphale thought he had perhaps never heard the Archangel Gabriel speak any truer words.

"And you want me to talk him out of doing it again? Bless him with seeing the error of his ways?" asked the Principality with a wrinkled nose. The whole thing seemed dreadfully pedestrian. And often, if the human was clever, he or she would see right through random, divine revelations such as that, and wind up back where they started.

"We would like you to do your thing – bless him in a way that makes him grateful. Make him desire the Kingdom. Isn't that what you do?"

"Well, is there any directive as to the method, in this case?"

Gabriel shrugged. "Nothing from on-high. Not much is known about this Sarrazin, except that his big vice seems to be gambling. That is what our surveillance team has been able to obtain."

Aziraphale groaned inwardly. The surveillance team weren't exactly most eagle-eyed of observers. They saw only what humans did, not why they did it. They were not able to ascertain human emotion, even the most rudimentary bits of it, from facial expression nor body language. They lacked all nuance, and had no desire to gain it.

"Gambling. I see. Might this be why he was… concealing his product, collecting additional payment?"

"Very likely."

"Something to do with debt-owing, or perhaps just the risk-taking nature of his personality."

"I've told you everything I know," Gabriel insisted, both hands up, disarmed. "The rest is on you."

"A gambler – I suppose I can work with that," Aziraphale thought aloud. "I'm going to need to know more about the family's financial situation. Perhaps if I insinuated myself into their domestic arrangement…"

"Do what you gotta do. Let us know how it goes."

"Right."

Again, Gabriel slapped his shoulder. "I knew I could count on you."  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

LATE MAY, 1337, VINCENNES, FRANCE

Aziraphale used the gateway that fed into the Salpêtrière neighbourhood, just outside the Paris city walls, on the other side of the river from Saint-Antoine. He was obliged to use supernatural means to cross the river, but then it was just an hour-and-a-half's walk to Vincennes.

As he walked, he thought more about the plan he had begun to hatch, even while Gabriel was standing right there in front of him. Most humans were mistrustful of someone who appeared out of nowhere, wanting to do nice things for them, so he didn't figure it would do just to approach Sarrazin and offer free domestic help. Fortunately, this was not his first jousting match, and he knew how to play on people's weaknesses… though he did it for good, not for evil. Usually.

When he arrived in Vincennes, he admired the clever stonework in the foundations of the new château as he passed, then entered the keep through the main gate. He asked after Sarrazin's dwelling, and discovered that he lived in a house that was larger than most of the others, on the corner of a row of houses whose rudimentary back gardens butted up against the keep's protective walls. It would be something of a privileged position – no next-door neighbour to one side, and no neighbours to the back.

It was very late afternoon, so when he knocked on the door, it was a woman who answered – average in every way.

"Yes?" she said.

"Madame Sarrazin?"

"Yes."

"Hello! My name is Angevin," he said to her, giving her the pseudonym he used in France. "I'm a traveller, just passing through, really. I'm on my way to Antwerp on business…"

"How nice for you," Madame Sarrazin said with more than just a grain of salt, attempting to shut the door.

Aziraphale stuck his foot in the doorjamb, just in time. "Madame, I'm looking for lodging."

"There's an inn just on the other side of the keep. Inquire over there."

"I'm afraid I don't have any funds," he said. "But I'm willing to work to earn my bread and board."

"What, like muck out the stables?"

"I suppose, if you'd like," he told her. "I can also fetch water, prepare bread for baking, I can wring the neck of a chicken and I can rise early and light a fire to make broth…"

Of course, he would never wring the neck of any creature. He could conjure broth whilst the family slumbered. Come to that, he could conjure a feast, if it befit the situation.

"Those are the tasks of women," she said, haughtily. "What sort of a man are you?"

He had known that these were likely her chores, and that it could be back-breaking work that she was obliged to do daily without fail. He had an idea that the prospect of having him about for a few days might appeal to her. And indeed, she hadn't tried again to shut the door on him.

To answer her question, he said, "The sort who is on his way to Antwerp, but cannot go there just yet, so needs to kill a bit of time, and is willing to do almost anything to keep a roof over his head. And Madame, I asked about a bit, and all to whom I spoke insisted that yours is the most prominent family in this sector of the keep. Who but you deserves a temporary servant?"

She put her hands on her hips and studied him. "You English?"

"Heavens, no," he answered, now trying to disguise the accent that had grown up around his settling in Londontown for the past three hundred years. "Breton, born and raised."

She grunted a bit, and looked him over. "I see. You look respectable enough – why haven't you got any money?"

"I'm afraid I've spent all of my month's wages on a game of chance," he said. "And there is a fellow I need to meet with in Antwerp to whom I owe quite a debt. I have no money, so naturally, I've agreed to assist him in his workshop for a time, for no pay and only a few crusts of bread."

"Naturally."

"Only I can't go yet because there's another man there to whom I owe an even larger debt, and he has made clear that he will not accept my labour as recompense, and but that he might, indeed, accept my severed head."

"Dear me," Madame Sarrazin said, with a small measure of expression in her voice.

"But I happen to know he's leaving for Hamburg in a week, so if I time it just right, I can settle my debt with the first fellow, without losing any of my important body parts to the other fellow."

Aziraphale was rather proud of this well-wrought, semi-elaborate lie.

The woman's eyebrows had risen deep into her forehead. "You'll fetch water? And kindling? And light it up before dawn?"

"I would be glad to," he said. "For at least the next three days – and then we'll see. I'll clean the stables, I'll mind the children, even."

She opened the door and stepped aside, and he took it as an invitation. Once inside, she closed the door, and stood with her arms crossed over her bosom. Aziraphale took a moment to take in his surroundings… they were modest, but relatively, clean, and surprisingly spacious. There were two rooms, one containing a table and chairs, hearth, stove, and three cots for the children, and a separate room, partitioned off with a thick animal skin hanging from the ceiling. Even with the family being one of the more resourceful in the keep, a skin that size would have been too expensive to afford with honest means – he was definitely in the right place.

"Never you mind what's behind there," said Madame Sarrazin scornfully, seeing him contemplating the skin, and mis-assessing where his mind had gone. She gestured to a small alcove off the main room where there was stored a broom, and two long poles used for carrying heavy buckets. "You'll sleep in there. You can get some straw from the stable in the back."

"Fine," he said.

"And you don't go discussing our family's affairs with anyone."

"What would I discuss?" he asked, innocently. Or, seemingly innocently.

She eyed him with suspicion, clearly wondering if he were a mole of some sort, perhaps sent by one of her husband's debtors. "Sarrazin is a proud man," she warned. "You try anything funny, and he'll crush your skull with a rock."

"Understood. You have my word, I won't discuss your affairs, and I won't try anything… funny."

"No fiddling the kiddies, and you remember yourself, I'm a married woman, Angevin."

He shuddered. "Have no fear of any of that, my dear lady."

"Right then. Your first task is to go find my husband and tell him who you are, and why you're staying in our home, before he comes home, finds you here, and brains you."

"Yes, ma'am," Aziraphale said, curtly. "Will I find him at the château?"

"Somewhere between there and the quarry. Ask about – you've already proven yourself good at that."

"I shall return before long," he assured her, opening the door.

As he stepped out, a few passers-by turned to look at him. Two women snickered, and giggled.

"Ah, of course – when the cat's away…" said one to the other.

"Well, you can't blame her, can you?" said the other.

"Oi! You two! Mind your own business you, or I'll tell your husbands you've been gossiping!" Madame Sarrazin shouted at them.

At the men who snickered at Aziraphale leaving the Sarrazin residence in the afternoon, she dared not shout. She stepped back into the house, cowed, and shut the door.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Finding Sarrazin was not a difficult job. He was on the path through the Bois, leading between the cart yard and the keep.

"You're who?" asked Sarrazin, as Aziraphale fell into step with him, after accosting him on the route.

"I'm Angevin," Aziraphale said, nervously, then proceeded to tell the man the same story his wife had heard earlier, including the bits about paying off debts (or failing to) in Antwerp.

Sarrazin stopped in his tracks, and faced Aziraphale. "And my wife gave you leave to stay in our home?"

"Yes," he said. "In exchange for some household services. Fetching water, readying the…"

"And you're hiding from a gambler's debt?" asked Sarrazin.

"I'm afraid so."

Sarrazin seemed to look at him almost sympathetically. "I've been there, myself."

"You don't say."

"You'll do the chores – anything we ask?"

"Well, I promised to do some of the so-called women's work, and I believe that must be the priority. But… yes, I can do anything you ask," Aziraphale answered, with a smile, knowing that he could use magic to sort out any task put to him.

Aziraphale waited for Sarrazin to give his final word, thanking Somebody that he had had some "training" in the field of temptation. These sorts of jobs went faster and more smoothly when people could be talked into things.

Sarrazin stuck out his hand, and Aziraphale shook it. "Thank you, sir," said Aziraphale. "You and your family are literally saving my life."

"Happy to lend a hand," said the carter grandly, as though he had just lifted a boulder out of an aqueduct.

The two of them walked abreast of each other in silence for a few minutes. On the path, they met two men coming in the opposite direction. The two men snickered the way folks had in the keep, but then as they passed, they and Sarrazin greeted each other curtly. Sarrazin pointedly did not turn his head to acknowledge them – he only said their names with some contempt. And as they walked out of earshot, the two men could clearly be heard calling Sarrazin a scoundrel.

This happened once more on the path, then twice more inside the keep as Sarrazin and his new temporary butler made their way through to the man's home.

Upon arrival, Aziraphale offered to prepare dinner, and Madame Sarrazin allowed him to do so. She watched with curiosity, as she had never seen a man prepare a dinner before. But she soon found that she had no idea what to do with herself, and couldn't stand to watch someone cut swedes the wrong way, so she took up a knife herself. There wasn't much food to be had, truthfully, which was surprising for a "prominent" family – he reckoned that this might be due to squandered resources, which was exactly why he was here.

So, when no-one was looking, the angel rounded out the food portions a little, just to fill their bellies a bit more. He softened the bread just a hair, salted the broth a tad, and sped up the cooking of swedes, as they were taking forever. He allowed the lady of the house to take most of the credit, and when they sat down to eat, he demurred, and insisted he did not need any dinner tonight – he would not have the children's portions lessened on his account.

The truth was, as an angel, Aziraphale did not need to eat to live, and as a gourmand, he had no interest in root vegetables boiled in broth, and stale bread.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Madame Sarrazin retired to sleep behind the animal skin curtain, just after putting the younger children in their beds. The oldest son had begun to frequent a tavern, and had disappeared after dinner.

Aziraphale and Sarrazin sat outside the latter's dwelling on stools, watching passers-by. Sarrazin had brought a bottle of wine and was passing it back and forth to Aziraphale, but the angel didn't drink from it – he only held it when offered, and handed it back when asked. Sharing a bottle of wine was an activity reserved for special occasions, in particular company, and this was not it.

Several of the men who passed noticed the carter, and shook their heads, snickered, or told him he had some nerve.

"Enough," grunted Sarrazin eventually, standing up. "I'm going inside."

"No, please stay," Aziraphale said. "This is your home, and you have every right to sit in front of it. Don't let them do that to you."

"Yeah well, maybe they're right to do that to me."

"Sit down. Please."

Aziraphale, of course, had a supernaturally comforting quality about him, and Sarrazin sat down, somewhat reluctantly. As he did so, he ripped the bottle out of the angel's hand, took a swig from it, and said, "This fucking town."

"Talk to me. I've already promised your wife that I wouldn't discuss your affairs with anyone, and I meant it."

"Too late – everyone already knows everything."

"Everyone already knows what? I've seen them snickering, Sarrazin. Why do they do so?"

"What business is it of yours?"

"None, I reckon," Aziraphale said, gently. "It just seems like you could use a friend. I've said I would do anything you ask… well, ask me to listen. Put it all on me, and see if you feel better for it."

"Well, that's daft."

"Do you ever go to confession?"

"Yes, but I lie."

"Do you ever tell the truth… even once in a while, when you just can't walk about with a secret anymore?" Aziraphale asked.

Sarrazin sighed. "I tell the truth from time to time. I conceal it most of the time. I only lie to detract from a sin so great, that I will feel judgement in the keep."

"In confession, your sins are to be kept confidential."

"Yes, but they're not. I am not, as you may have noticed, a man of great conviction or moral fortitude," Sarrazin chuckled. "And neither are our clergy. When two men of that sort cross their lack of conviction, this is where chaos ensues."

"Is that what happened in this case?"

"No, I wouldn't have dared tell a priest what I did."

Aziraphale was silent for a minute or two, thinking. He could not believe that Sarrazin was as lackadaisical about morality, sin, and confession as he let on.

So, he asked, "All your life going to confession, you've never once felt purged of worry when you unburdened yourself? I understand that you've been keeping what you feel are the gravest sins to yourself, but the small things. Don't you walk a bit more lightly after saying what you've done?"

"I suppose," the carter told him, grudgingly.

"When you don't have to carry the weight of your transgression on your own anymore?"

"I suppose," Sarrazin repeated.

"Then just pretend you're in confession," Aziraphale encouraged. "I'm your servant for the next few days, your cook, your cleaner… why not also your confessor?"

Sarrazin laughed. "You're a holy man? Right!"

"You might be surprised," Aziraphale told him.

"A holy man who gambles?"

"There are a lot of holy men who gamble," Aziraphale said, truthfully. Though he, himself, was not one of them. "Look, if everyone already knows, then what have you got to lose by confiding in me?"

Sarrazin sighed, and took a long pause. He drank a long pull off the wine, then said, tentatively, "I work around the château each day. I go to the cart yard and extract my cart in the morning, and borrow a horse, then I go to the quarry for a load. I pay them a certain sum for what they give me. Then I stop at one of the royal commerce posts, and they pay me for what I've brought, and I make a tidy profit. I go the rest of the way to one of the corner building sites, and some of the masons help me unload. Then I return my cart to the yard, and head back to the keep. This takes me all day."

"Indeed," Aziraphale said. "It sounds like difficult work."

"Tedious is more like it," Sarrazin sighed. "The highlight lately for me has been this Master Mason at the site I've been going to."

"I see," Aziraphale said. And he did – he had developed a keen sense of the nuances in the voices of humans. There was something like longing beneath the surface of that last sentence.

"He's a very interesting man," Sarrazin said, attempting to keep his voice even, but not fooling Aziraphale. "We talk. We exchange stories. We were friends, or so I thought."

"You thought? But no more?"

"I made the mistake of revealing too much about myself – specifically my family's financial situation, and he made a suggestion…" Sarrazin said, shutting his eyes hard. "And ugh, I was fool enough to listen."

"What sort of… suggestion?"

Aziraphale was not surprised to hear the story of how Sarrazin had paid for only half of a cartload, then sold a full load to the King's Trust, because Gabriel had more or less briefed him on this bit before he had come here. The new information was where he got the idea, and that he had been helped at the site by a Master Mason, who he seemed to fancy just a bit.

"But, the men at the site must've heard us talking because the snickering began that evening, and by the next day… well, you saw."

"Have you continued to defraud the King's Trust?"

"No," said Sarrazin. "I mean, I'm no angel. I lie to priests, I gamble. And as long as I'm confessing things… well, I sometimes look at other men in ways that I shouldn't."

"All of those things are eminently human," said Aziraphale. "No-one is asking you to be faultless."

Sarrazin laughed. "Where've you been? Another world?" He continued to laugh for a few more moments, then calmed. "I'm a bastard sometimes. I'm not the most honest of men, and when I get pressured with an angel on one shoulder and a demon on the other, I'm not always wont to go the way of the angel. But in this case, I had to realise how my bread was made, and renounce the way of the demon."

"I don't understand."

"This Master Mason… he is formidable. He has ways of… let's just say I did not like to piss him off. That's one reason I did what I did."

"Ah," Aziraphale said simply, understanding that some masons become entangled in a network with far-reaching resources, that could effectively ruin a person who did not comply.

"But if the King's Treasurer found out, the punishment could be even more severe, and since word had got around…" Sarrazin sighed, once again. "I couldn't afford to risk it – not with a family dependent upon me."

"So you've been conducting your business honestly since then?"

"Yes."

"I recommend you continue to do that," said Aziraphale. "And whatever financial hardship you have wrought will sort itself out through honest work."

He knew that Sarrazin was right to scoff, but he also knew that he could help the carter. He could help bring stability back to the family, he could help end Sarrazin's urges to play games of chance, and he could perhaps see to it that no Master Mason ever bothered him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, not that exciting yet, but just wait! The next chapter might see things come together... pardon the pun.
> 
> Why not leave a comment now, you know, just to let me know you're reading it? Thank you for doing so!


	6. SIX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps some confusion was wrought, in the beginning of Aziraphale's 14th century tale - how SHALL things come to a head, with both angel and demon targeting this poor man? But remember, once upon a time, there was a cave. And in the 21st century, there's an angel confessing his less-than-pure history to his demon love...
> 
> In this chapter, we are going to meet (briefly) a man named Ignace Fendy, who may answer a lot of questions for us (though, perhaps he might also raise a few). This chapter is NSFW, in fact, I might call this the climax of the story, even though there are at least three more chapters to go...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I find myself in a position where I have to beg, borrow, cheat and steal, in order to find time to write and post. Time alone is tight as things go on lockdown and I deal with my household... so, your patience has been appreciated. Please don't let it be in vain - let me hear from you!

LATE MAY, 1337, VINCENNES, FRANCE

Aziraphale could quite see how indiscretion was, indeed, a vice of this town. If even the priest liked to gossip, what hope did a man like Sarrazin have?

Case in point, a third round of asking about concerning the comings and goings of Sarrazin yielded almost immediate results. For the moment, that was fine with Aziraphale. He didn't like the general air of whispers and judgement and hypocrisy that hung over the keep of Vincennes like a dark cloud – it made his job all the harder. He had half a mind to stay for the rest of the year and try to drive the keep toward a more forgiving and inclusive environment… but first things first.

His goal was to find the Master Mason at the site where Sarrazin unloaded his wares, and for today, only get a feel for him and his influence. It was just day-two of this assignment – he was still in reconnaissance mode.

It was not difficult to discern which of the masons was the Master, at this particular site. He carried himself with a bit more grace than the others, instructed them in their work, and frankly, was wearing better clothes. Perhaps better than was appropriate for someone of his station.

"Good morning, my good man," Aziraphale said, hiking carefully down into the foundation of this part of the château. Immediately, the Master Mason's attention was piqued. He watched Aziraphale move all the way down to the bottom level, then cross the ten metres between them. "How are you this fine morning?"

"I'm well," said the man. "And who might you be?"

"The name is Angevin," Aziraphale said, offering his arm for a firm shake, and the Master Mason took it. "I'm a foreman over at the quarry."

"Well, I'm Fendy," said the man. "Ignace Fendy. And I'm Master Mason supervising this site."

Fendy put his hands on his hips and stood up straight, clearly attempting to show which one of them was in charge here, in this corner of the château.

And indeed, he was impressive. He was two or three inches taller than the angel, and had a thin, sinewy frame. Although, he did work with his hands and muscles, and it was clear to look at him that he was, nevertheless, strong and sturdy. His hair was brown, and greasier than the average, pulled back behind his ears, and tied at the nape of his neck. His face was pleasing enough to look at. Aziraphale could see how Sarrazin might see this man as formidable.

And slowly, he began to notice men around them stop their work, and begin to gape at the scene.

"Hello, all," Aziraphale said to them awkwardly, hoping to put them at ease. It did not work. "Er, I say… there is no need to worry, gentlemen. I was simply asked to visit the site, and assess the work being done here."

"Oh really?" Ignace Fendy asked, with a sceptical frown. "You're going to assess us?"

Oops, a misstep!

"Yes, but only the efficiency with which you are using the materials, not the quality of your work," Aziraphale said, smiling uncomfortably, and speaking more haltingly than normal. "I'm clearly not qualified to comment on anything such as that."

The masons around them were now taking steps forward, each with a chisel, or some other terrifying tool in his hand.

"I'd say you're not qualified to comment on anything here," Fendy said, his face as stony as the work he did. "Whoever sent you, you can tell them that 'we' said to stay away. No one assesses us. We know our trade, and we do the work right."

"Oh I can see that," Aziraphale said, chuckling. "Superb craftsmanship. Well, then, I'll just tell my superior that things are handled here, and that superb craftsmanship is worth any amount of product that we could mine, even if the resources are running scarce."

"Not too scarce, I hope," Fendy whispered. "I'd hate to think that you were sent here to tell us in a roundabout way that labour is being cut back."

"Oh no!" Aziraphale protested.

He now realised he'd got in over his head with this Fendy bloke. He also now realised why Sarrazin was afraid to defy him, and not accept his 'helpful suggestion' to cheat the King's Trust.

Masons were closing in… most of them were now less than five steps away from him.

He was, of course, immortal, and did not have mortal fear. He was, though, not keen on the idea of being discorporated, nor attacked with a stonemason's tool of any sort. But there was one last thing he needed to verify, before fleeing the scene, because he'd be damned if he was coming back here.

"Gentlemen, I can see that this has been a less-than-fruitful journey, but would you be so good as to answer one question for me?" he asked Fendy.

"One, and then you best be getting along," warned the Master Mason.

"Is this the site where Paul L'Apôtre Sarrazin brings his wares?"

Fendy looked at him sideways, with suspicion. "You just leave that carter alone."

"A simple yes or no will do."

"The answer is yes," said Fendy. "But he's a good sort, he's done nothing to you, so you just leave him be. He's a worker - he's one of us."

"I see," said Aziraphale. "Thank you for your time. I'll be going now."

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sarrazin was in it deeply, indeed. Aziraphale had seen this sort of behaviour before with masons. Clandestine activities – immoral, if not illegal, business fronts, favours traded, bribes paid, powerful people intimidated – tight, deep ranks, solidarity, loyalty, and no forgiveness. The larger the network became, the more clout they had. If it was one unfortunate blackmailed shoemaker (as for example) against a small army of men who worked with their hands and fists day in and day out, whose numbers were unknown even to them, there was no way said shoemaker was ever going to push back.

It was not all masons – in fact, relatively few – who behaved this way, but enough.

And if Fendy had suggested that Sarrazin commit the fraud against the King's Trust, and now thought he was "one of them," then Sarrazin would now be expected to join the ranks.

Well, no wonder Aziraphale was sent to him.

Aziraphale spent, of course, part of the day at the Sarrazin house. The children were off apprenticing, and/or mucking about in the Bois with their fellow mucker-abouters. Madame Sarrazin left home at midday to have a walk, and a chat with a friend. Aziraphale suspected she wanted to a) boast her freedom, and b) illustrate to the townsfolk that she was definitely not in her home having an illicit affair with a white-haired stranger who had turned up the previous day out of the blue…

Meanwhile, the angel took care of the stables, tended the garden, fetched water from the well outside of the keep, made a new batch of broth, a loaf of bread, salted the chicken and stored it for later, cut up the swedes to prepare them for soup, and swept out the main room. With the lady of the house gone, he could get it all done in about ten minutes, no fuss, no muss. A lot of frivolous magic, but what harm would it do?

He had spruced up the dinner, and didn't mind eating it; moreover, it would have looked exceedingly strange if he had skipped another meal with the Sarrazin family.

And once again, Aziraphale and his mark retired out in front of the house to pass a bottle of wine back and forth, even if only one of them actually drank from it.

"Listen, Sarrazin, I met that Master Mason fellow today," Aziraphale admitted. "He's a bit of a nasty piece of work."

"You talked to him? I thought he left town after… the incident."

"Apparently not – he was there this morning at the building site. Tall fellow, sort of a lean?"

"That's him," Sarrazin sighed.

"I think you would do well to stay away from him," Aziraphale said. "I mean, if you were to ask my advice, which you did not…"

"I would tend to agree with you, Angevin," said the carter. "Although… he's not all bad."

"Clearly not. No human is all bad."

"In fact, I rather… well, I find him interesting…" Sarrazin muttered, staring off at a star in the twilit sky.

"Right, so you said before," Aziraphale asked him, studying his faraway face, and remembering the bit of longing he had previously detected in the carter's discourse concerning the Master Mason.

"Mm?"

"You say you find the Master Mason interesting?" After a few beats, "Sarrazin?"

"Oh, yes, sorry," said the quarry carter, sitting up straight, snapping out of some sort of reverie. "Interesting, yes. But… erm, in the same way that a cat is interesting to a mouse."

Aziraphale was quiet for a few moments, contemplating his next question. "Sarrazin, this is the second time you've told me that you find him interesting. Is this one of those times when you're looking at a man in a way you think you should not do?"

"Perhaps. What of it?"

"Nothing of it. Nothing at all, dear man," Aziraphale said, and he meant it.

"You said I could confide in you…"

"You can," Aziraphale assured him. "I have said I will do anything you, or your wife, should ask. I gave my word not to discuss your affairs, and I consider that to be sacred."

Sarrazin studied him, as he had done to Sarrazin just a minute before. "Against my better judgement, I trust you."

"I have that effect sometimes," the angel said to him, trying not to beam too hard. "So you are keen on the Master Mason, but I must ask, why the cat-and-mouse metaphor?"

Again, Sarrazin sighed heavily. "I spoke to him today. He accosted me outside the cart yard."

"Accosted you?"

"Well, he surprised me, and wanted to talk, and I didn't feel I could refuse," said the carter. "You have stated that you can see why."

"Yes, I have. And I can."

"He apologised for having made the suggestion that he made, and I accepted it. But then, he began talking about giving me satisfaction."

"Satisfaction? Do you mean, allowing you to take vengeance upon him?"

There was a pregnant pause, before Sarrazin said, "That makes the most sense, doesn't it?"

"Well, what is he suggesting now?"

"A… duel," answered the carter, swallowing hard, and shifting uncomfortably on the log upon which he and Aziraphale sat.

"A duel?" Aziraphale asked, rather incredulous. "Are you sure that his apology was sincere? Are you sure it's really your satisfaction that he's after?"

"I believe he's trying to do a kind of penance for having wronged me somehow, but to be honest, Angevin, I'm not sure of anything." Sarrazin had grown a bit sullen now. Aziraphale could see trepidation all over his face.

"Do you think he wants you to kill him?"

"I really don't think so. I think it's another kind of duel altogether."

"I don't follow."

"It's…" he sighed yet again, and looked at Aziraphale. For a few moments, the angel thought he might actually get an answer, and then Sarrazin let out a huge breath of air, "It might be just a different kind of transaction. Between two men who..."

When he went no further, Aziraphale asked, "The sort of transaction that you can handle?"

"I can. And part of me actually wants to."

"I can't encourage you to kill, or maim, Sarrazin," Aziraphale warned. "Again, I know you didn't ask my opinion on this, but…"

"I understand," said the carter, meekly.

"Well, when is this supposed to take place?"

"Tonight. Midnight. In a cave in the Bois, next to the lake."

"Do you want some company?" asked Aziraphale. "A bit of reinforcement? Even if it's just someone to be on your side?"

"I'll think on it. Thanks, Angevin."

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rain was pounding the roof, and Aziraphale was lying on the floor of a small alcove just off the kitchen, on a thin mat of straw, marveling at the fact that no water leaked in. The roof was well-made, as the rain had been coming for at least an hour.

He had retired for the night at the same time as the family. He had put on one of Sarrazin's linen night shirts, as it had been offered to him tonight, and he felt he ought to be grateful enough for their hospitality to accept. He rarely slept, though, and tonight was no particular exception; he lay instead thinking of Sarrazin's dilemma. What was it that Ignace Fendy wanted from him? Could it be as simple as penance? If so, was it an actual duel, or some other recompense, as Sarrazin thought? Aziraphale was experienced in the field of human behaviours and vices, but he could not get a grip on what this "transaction" might be.

But what he did know was that, whatever it was, an angel of the Almighty could handle it.

Suddenly, the animal skin was yanked aside violently, and he heard, "Angevin!" harshly whispered into the darkness.

He sat up with a start, and turned to look at Sarrazin, whose face, he could see by the final remnants of the candle burning in the main room, was frantic. "Yes?"

"Thank God you're awake."

"Indeed," Aziraphale said. "What's the matter?"

Sarrazin sat down on the kitchen floor and leaned against the wall very near to the angel. He buried his face in his hands, and said, "I can't take this. I can't…"

"There, there," Aziraphale said, patting the man's arm. "I can help you. It will be fine. Whatever Master Mason can throw at you, I assure you, I can cope. I am a lot tougher than I seem."

"I just want to get out of this town and start over somewhere else," Sarrazin moaned.

"Pardon?"

"Vincennes is ruined for me, and for my family. I'm already a drinker and a gambler, and everyone knows it. The only reason no-one has said anything is because I'm an elder. But now, there's this business with cheating the King's Trust, and now I might be entangled with a masons' net of crime and who knows what else…"

"I can help you with that, too."

"And if I go to that cave at midnight, Angevin…" Sarrazin said to him, taking his hands away from his face, his eyes now deadly serious and filled with dread.

"All right," Aziraphale said. "There's no need to panic."

"God help me, I want to go!" said Sarrazin. "The gambler in me can't seem to commit to staying away, and there are other reasons why I want to go, but if I do, I'll be disgraced even further! If I don't go, he may come for me, and either way…"

"You'll have to start anew somewhere else."

"Yes."

Aziraphale could suddenly see quite clearly the objective of this assignment. Gabriel and the Almighty had trusted him to work out exactly how best to help this unfortunate man, who couldn't seem to set aside his vices, and couldn't quite seem to embrace them either. And here it was: the revelation of what sort of miracle would bless Sarrazin's life the most, and that of his family. The keep of Vincennes, the air of judgement… Aziraphale's smelling the hypocrisy in the air, it all had a purpose.

"Sarrazin, listen to me," Aziraphale said, getting to his feet. "There isn't much time, but if you want out of here, then get out."

"What?"

"I've just come from Breton," the angel lied. "But I came south of Paris, by way of Versailles, where the King has another hunting lodge. Head there. There is talk of adding to the existing building."

"I can't just…"

"Yes, you can," Aziraphale assured him. "Wake up your wife, and the children, plan to leave at midnight. Forget about Vincennes, and let me take care of everything else."

"How?"

"Don't ask questions, Sarrazin. It's best you not know. I'm here to help you – let me help. Take your family to Versailles. Get out of the reach of the masons here, keep your nose clean when you get there, and you have another chance at respectability. Of not being run down by a crime network. Cut back on the drink. Stop the gambling. Stop lying to the clergy, for God's sake, and be faithful to your wife. Understood?"

"I am faithful to my wife!"

"Good. Remain that way."

Sarrazin looked at him with narrowed eyes. "Who are you to judge me? Aren't you a gambler and a drinker yourself?"

"I'm not judging," Aziraphale said. "If I had my way, people could drink and gamble and fornicate with whomever they wish – the Almighty doesn't much bother with any of that, unless someone is hurt. What I'm saying is: people judge. And if you want to live in a town, have a livelihood, and have a fresh start, then be smart, Sarrazin. This is what you need to do to keep your life together. For the sake of your family."

"What about the duel?"

"I'll take care of it, don't worry."

Again, Sarrazin looked at him sideways. "Who are you?"

"Just get everyone out of bed, pack up some provisions and go. There will be employment and a dwelling waiting for you when you arrive. Your new name is Arnaud Desprez. When you arrive, tell them who you are, and someone will direct you."

"So, you're going to do this duel in my place…"

"Yes, the duel or whatever it is. I will get there, and assess and adjust. I'll fight, I'll talk, I'll tell him off… whatever it takes. Your only job is to be gone by the time I'm finished." Any miracling he had to do in order to fend off attacks or frighten the masons, it would all be in the service of this miracle, the one he had been sent to perform for Sarrazin.

"But…" Sarrazin began, before being choked by his own emotion. Aziraphale could see then that the man had now transferred some fear onto him.

"Rest assured, my dear man, I am not dangerous. I do not ask for anything in return. You will never hear from me again, unless you want to. I don't belong to a network that will try to disgrace you, or press upon you later on. I deal in miracles. You can trust me – you already have. You don't have any good choices now, so you might as well run, and regrow your life and reputation at Versailles."

Sarrazin nodded subtly. "If you're going to the cave, take my cloak. I know it's got an unbecoming patch on the hood, but it's pouring rain – don't want you to catch your death."

Aziraphale smiled. "Thank you."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------

The angel took the brown burlap cloak with a layered linen patch in the hood, and left. He made his way through the mud and the rain, in the pitch-dark night into the Bois de Vincennes, to the cave near the lake. Ignace Fendy had not yet arrived, and that was good – it gave Aziraphale a few moments to assess the surroundings, and think for a few more minutes.

There were four natural archways that looked out onto the lake. Ordinarily, anyway. Tonight, the sheets of rain obscured just about everything, and the noise of it hammering the body of water and the rock surrounding him was deafening. Aziraphale stood in one of the archways gazing at the storm, and marvelling at the almost total lack of moonlight, with his hood still up from the hike to the cave. Rarely, if ever, had he seen a darker, wetter night.

He stood there less than five minutes, and did not hear Fendy approach. But, just as he was wondering, once again, what in creation this "transaction" or "duel" could be about, he felt something fall upon his shoulders. He flinched, realising that it was, in fact, hands. Gentle ones. He might have turned to protest. He might have rounded on this insolent man, this Master Mason who believed he could manipulate anyone he liked…

…except that skilled fingertips, strong ones, began to dig into his shoulder muscles. It was an extraordinary sensation – he relaxed immediately, almost against his own will. He had never, ever been touched this way before by anyone, and his corporeal form had never known this kind of full-handed kneading, this spreading of awareness, or interaction with the corporeal form of another.

He wanted to stand up to the man, but to his own surprise, he found himself leaning into the little massage.

That's what this was – wasn't it? A shoulder massage? It was, in spite of himself, magnificent… but why was it happening at all? This had to stop – he had to find his faculties. Now.

But then he felt Fendy's right hand begin to crawl across his right shoulder, and down his arm. The man's arm next spread over his chest, and Aziraphale leaned further into an actual embrace. It was a beautiful feeling, body-to-body contact. The man was warm and strong – his arms long, chest solid and sinewy.

Something was happening to him… he really should make it stop. Protest. Wrest away. Why couldn't he?

And when the mason's left hand moved, it grasped one of his buttocks, and squeezed. Aziraphale took in a quick breath, and did not resist – it felt delicious. And curious. Lascivious, to be sure, as the action sent a shock of lust that settled in his groin, and now, he understood. This was what it was about – the duel, the "transaction," Fendy being a tall, showy, attractive fellow, and Sarrazin having feelings for other men. Clearly, it was mutual, and the carter had expressed actually desiring to come here tonight… Aziraphale now saw why. And also why Sarrazin had wrestled with the decision.

But the angel also saw, in these few moments, why this was such a huge part of the human experience. Having a body. Walking through corporeal knowledge. After nearly five-and-a-half millennia, it was finally dawning on him.

In a cave. With a virtual stranger.

Bizarrely, he began to feel affection and attraction toward Ignace Fendy, began to see him as a gracious teacher, a lovely sensual being, and began to look forward to whatever was to come.

The mason's hand fondled him for a bit longer, and he felt his body tighten with arousal. And the hand that had been across his chest now slid down, and brushed over a tell-tale bulge at the front of Aziraphale's borrowed cloak.

He hadn't realised it until now, but the bulge was bulging, indeed. Fendy must have approved, because he was now running his hand up and down the surprised, stiffening member.

Someone was stroking his hard phallus for the first time ever, and he was absolutely adoring how it made him feel.

It was like waves all concentrated upon the same patch of ocean. It grew more intense, bigger, more insistent. The man's fingers wound around his member through the fabric, smoothly like a snake, and if Aziraphale wasn't mistaken, his cock seemed to bob in response. It hit him like a ton of rock, and his knees grew weak. Skilled digits fondled the underside, and he leaned back again, enjoying being held upright by a strong, lean body that seemed to want him. (He reminded himself briefly that it was Sarrazin that Fendy really wanted, but at the moment, it didn't matter. He was here to save Sarrazin from this sort of disgrace, and he had done his duty. He decided to seize the moment for himself.)

Fendy bent now, and seemed to be inspecting the hem of Aziraphale's garment. Within seconds, he felt the cold, wet air upon his angelic porcelain skin as his nightshirt and cloak were being dragged up his legs. His bottom was now exposed to the air, and to his amazement and delight, Fendy squeezed his buttocks once again with affection, then pressed his own erection into Aziraphale's rapidly warming backside. He swelled with pride at how much the Master Mason seemed to desire his fleshy form.

He heard the distinct sound of a knife compartment being opened, and for a short moment, he panicked. But then, his nose caught a whiff of pork, just for a second, through the overwhelming scent of rain and wet burlap. Before he had time to wonder at it, he felt what must have been Fendy's fingers, covered in slippery pork fat, probing between his cheeks. He gave a sharp intake of breath as the fingers slipped past the elastic ring at his rear opening, and he couldn't help but tense. He heard Fendy take a deep, cleansing breath, so he followed suit, just as he felt his feet being pried slightly apart, and his upper body being encouraged forward. He obliged by spreading himself open a bit more, and bending into an obtuse angle, bracing himself against the archway in front of him. He most definitely wanted this now, though he didn't fully understand what "this" was.

He began to relax, and at the same time, become anxious for the next steps. His backside was filled deeper with greasy fingers, and then made wider. This felt delectable, and a bit painful, but the pleasure far outweighed the discomfort. Besides, he thought he knew why this was being done to him, and he couldn't wait to find out if he was correct.

A third finger was added to his hole, and he could not hold back from groaning with pleasure. This must have empowered the Master Mason, because he began to give Aziraphale a good, hard, fingering. In and out, first shallow strokes, rather slow, growing insistent, growing faster, deeper. Three fingers, working up to a solid, widened fingerfuck, forcing grunts through Aziraphale's mouth, and putting pressure on his strong arms. He felt the lovely strain, and was so ready to take more pressure, more filling of his rear hole, more pleasure, more stroking…

At last, it seemed the Master Mason was ready for something new and pulled his fingers free of the appreciative, stretched arse. There was a pause, and Aziraphale could feel the other man moving behind him. The next thing he knew, he felt a fleshy, slippery, bulbous probe at his back hole, and then felt it being guided inside. Fendy wrapped his arms around Aziraphale's waist, and gave a shove, burying himself all the way, and grunting as he did so.

Fendy began to move immediately. He pulled back almost all the way, then drove forward again. For Aziraphale, the warmth, the tightness, the slippery, the feeling of being filled over and over, the juddering sensations from being fucked for the first time, the smell of the rain, it was all exquisite. The mason was spurred on by the night, and pushed and pulled steadily harder, steadily faster, burying himself over and over, penetrating, giving them both such shimmering, poignant sensations. Aziraphale began to feel his breath coming more quickly as excitement mounted – he marvelled at the how divine this felt, and yet he had only met this man once – how was that possible? This felt comfortable and exhilarating, enthralling, and darkly passionate when Fendy drove his left hand up his chest and grasped at Aziraphale's chin.

The angel felt the mason's face near his, and he felt encouraged to rest the back of his head against the other man's shoulder. He did so, and the hood of his cloak fell down over his eyes. Something in the next few moments gave Fendy a push, because he began to fuck a little faster and harder. Two of the mason's left-hand fingers crawled into Aziraphale's wet hot mouth, and the latter could do naught but suck on them like a man starved. He tasted the salt of the mason's flesh, and marvelled at the softness of his hands. His fingers were soft and supple, perfect for fingering an arse or a mouth… not at all rough like those of most masons.

Aziraphale then felt Fendy's other hand slipping underneath his linen night shirt, and grasping at his cock. The expert hand, still slippery with pork fat, slid back and forth over his distended shaft over and over, tugging, skillfully bringing Aziraphale toward the first orgasm of his life.

Their bodies had found a rhythm miraculously quickly, as though they had been dancing this dance for aeons. Fendy's hips pressed forward again and again insistently, and Aziraphale's receptive backside bore down at intervals and accepted it with a deeply-seated hunger.

The angel's body was on the rise – this experience was a revelation. He had nearly forgotten in the last few moments that he had come here to help Sarrazin out of a jam, and briefly admonished himself for the irresponsibility of participating in this act. But the act could be completed without jeopardising anything about the assignment, or Sarrazin's family, and he was enjoying himself with a gusto he had never dreamed possible. The combination of sensations made his body spark – sucking on the questing fingers of a strong, sinewy man, having his eager phallus pumped to the verge of eruption, and having his arse filled over and over, making his body tremble, buzz, and flow, with every fantastic second that went by.

Suddenly, he heard a muffled grunt, and felt a big, tight gush of warm slippery fluid filling up his hole, followed by another spurt, and then another. Little explosions filled his mind, prickles overwhelmed his body, as he got possessed and claimed by a magnificent man whom he had just met…

And then, his own body tensed, and the same jets of liquid pleasure spurted over the mason's thumb and forefinger. The release was incredible. He shuddered hard, and almost lost his balance. It was like a storm through his body, a bottleneck of sensation finally unplugged, drowning him, but saving him at the same time. He was breathless, yet, he could breathe for the first time ever. It was amazing, luxurious, and he relished at feeling his shaft throb and bob in Fendy's hand, and jerk with the last teasing motions of fingers and palm.

He exhaled, and they stayed like this for a few long moments, Aziraphale breathing hard, Fendy still grasping him in front, and buried in him in the back. Both needed a chance to catch their breath, and Aziraphale fell forward a bit, once again catching himself against the sides of the archway. They must have stumbled a bit backward in their ardour, because they were now just slightly further away from the archway, and the angel's body was crooked forward quite a lot now.

They both felt crippled with the sensation, the subsiding pleasure and explosion and wonder.

But then they heard a noise to their left.

It sounded like drunken men, stumbling toward the cave. They were quite close now – the rain (and the delectable fuck) had been too deafening for them to have heard it before.

Suddenly he felt ill. Had Fendy orchestrated this somehow, to humiliate Sarrazin? But then, he would equally humiliate himself, wouldn't he? Aziraphale again admonished himself for leaping into this without having all the facts, without first talking to Fendy.

For a few daft moments, he wondered if he could cover up the situation somehow, and not let the drunken newcomers know what was transpiring.

But in a few seconds the drunkards were there, and one of them found the wherewithal to turn on the lamp they had been concealing under their robes due to the rain, and there could be no mistake. They saw in the cave one man bent forward with his cloak pulled up over his arse, and another man standing behind him, pressed in close, with his tights down around his knees.

There was no way they could be convinced that this was anything other than what it was. Humans were idiots sometimes, but glossing this over would be asking too much of their skills of blindness and stupidity.

One of the men blasphemed in his surprise, the other two just gaped at them.

Aziraphale had no idea what to do other than get the hell out of there. So he did. Like a flash, he was suddenly disengaged from Fendy, and running through the cave, hoping against hope that there was an exit on the other side.

About five seconds later, Aziraphale could hear Fendy fleeing behind him, but in the dark, in the rain, outside in the woods, the angel was able to disappear into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo... thoughts? I know you're having them! ;-) Leave a comment and let me know! 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	7. SEVEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has heard Aziraphale's story about Sarrazin, Fendy, and the cave. So, how shall they proceed, given that the forces of Heaven and Hell will be almost surely coming after them in the morning?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it seems like the previous chapter threw a couple of people for a loop... personally, it never occurred to me that Aziraphale might have known what he was doing, and who he was with! That possibility threw me for a loop!
> 
> In other news, please don't hate me at the end of this chapter! Slightly NSFW, but perhaps not enough? You decide!

MID-AUGUST, MODERN-DAY LONDON

Crowley had been listening to the angel's story for the past half-hour, mostly with jaw agape. His stomach was turning over and over, though he wasn't sure whether that was excitement talking, or confusion. Or uncertainty. Or anger.

He had half a mind to stop Aziraphale talking, and catch him up on what he, Crowley, knew. But his mouth and throat had gone dry – he had been stunned into silence. It was one of the few times in his life when he had no idea how to play it cool.

Fortunately, the angel seemed determined to purge himself of every last detail of the Sarrazin/Fendy story, and didn't notice.

"Well, we could hear voices - people were coming up into the cave! For a moment, I was too surprised to move, and they most definitely saw us, and I daresay could quite easily surmise the situation. I don't need to tell you, I had never before been caught 'in flagrante delicto!' I had no idea what to do, other than get the Hell out of there. So I did. Like a flash, I was suddenly disengaged from Fendy, and running through the cave, hoping against hope that there was an exit on the other side. Luckily, there was, and within seconds, I could hear Fendy fleeing behind me. I had no desire to face him, even in the dark, so I took advantage of the storm, and disappeared into the night. No magic, just rain, and a new moon."

"So," Crowley managed to croak, with a big swallow. "Where did you go next?"

"Paris, of course," Aziraphale said. "The miracle had been performed – Sarrazin and his family had a new home, a new identity, and new purpose in Versailles. So I decided I deserved some Gauffres."

"I see," said the demon, rather meekly.

"And that, Crowley, was when the guilt began to set in," Aziraphale confessed. He was still sitting in the middle of the "U" shape that was his companion's sofa. "The dust had settled, and I realised: I was an angel, supposed to keep my corporeal form unsullied. Putting all manner of foodstuffs into it was one thing, but this was a completely different type of sullying."

"Angel…"

"Or so I thought, at the time. Now, here with you, and knowing what I know of our respective sides, I suppose I needn't have worried. Nevertheless, I was supposed to be morally unflappable, yet was hooked in by one tender touch, and unravelled into a panting, lustful stupor, just because it felt good, and it was new."

"Oh, angel. It might be a demon talking, but that is what a corporeal form is for."

"I understand that is true now," said Aziraphale sheepishly, pointedly breaking eye-contact with the object of his affection. "At least partly."

"And it might have been something else, something a bit deeper, that reduced you to a lustful stupor. Definitely more than just 'it felt good, and it was new.'"

"That's very kind."

"I'm not being kind."

"Yes, you are," the angel dismissed. "But Crowley, back then, my guilt wasn't just about being an angel. Something else was gnawing away at me afterwards. So much so that I have never repeated the experience."

"Really?"

"Really. I have had the chance – even with, as you mentioned, Oscar Wilde – and always walked away from them."

"Interesting."

"I didn't realise until appallingly recently that that gnawing, that feeling of being tainted… it had nothing to do with my celestial body or duties. It was to do with… well, you. Some part of me has always been waiting for you, and with one spur-of-the-moment choice, I ruined it. And once I came to that conclusion, I felt even worse that I had had my one and only sexual encounter with a virtual stranger."

"Aziraphale, I have never expected you to be pure for me. The notion has never even occurred to me."

"I know, but I feel that our union might have been perfect, were it not for Ignace Fendy, and my incredibly weak will."

Crowley reached out and took his companion's hand once again, and said, "Don't be ridiculous. It is perfect. Just the fact that you're here, and that we're at this point, makes it perfect."

"Thank you, Crowley."

"And nothing can taint it, because even if we happen to die tomorrow, we know where we stand."

"Didn't you agree with me earlier, that we've always known?"

"Yes, but… will you let me have this moment, please?"

Aziraphale smiled. "Yes, of course, sorry." He affected an overly zealous tone, "Ah, rejoice we that we shan't have to perish never knowing."

"Yes, thank you. If I'm to be reduced to a puddle in the next twelve hours, at least I have been loved by an angel."

"You have been. Well loved," Aziraphale agreed, squeezing Crowley's hand, even though he felt that they had already been over this territory.

Though he was about to be disabused of that notion.

"And there is one more revelation, as well, that we should take comfort in having, before we are run down by minions of Heaven and Hell."

"Oh?"

"But first you need to know unequivocally that your being pure or impure has never crossed my mind, and is irrelevant to how I feel."

"All right. I understand."

"And now I can give you the second revelation that we can take to our metaphorical graves, if need be."

"Just say it, Crowley."

"I'm the one who tempted Sarrazin into cheating the King's Trust," Crowley said.

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not. I'm completely serious. He wasn't talked into it by some medieval mafioso. It was me."

"You… but Fendy… he… what?"

"Sarrazin didn't even meet Fendy until after the King's Trust fraud. I was Master Mason at the site where he first began dropping off his wares, and when he changed his route to escape the snickers, he began going to Fendy's site."

"You're the Master… what? Crowley, that's… oh… so then… wait…"

"So, I'm the Master Mason who tempted him into that cave."

"Wha… how… I didn't even know you were there in Vincennes! How did we escape each other's notice?"

"I looked for you over those few days, but I specifically avoided the family, and the work site, which was where you were," Crowley chuckled. "But angel, now that I've heard your side of the Sarrazin story, I know that your one so-called 'impure' act…"

"Was with you?" Aziraphale asked, eyes squinted, as though the information refused to compute.

"Yes. It would seem so," Crowley answered, near tears. Again.

"Oh… oh my… how is that possible?"

"Incredible coincidence. The perfect storm of temptation, manipulation, benediction, substitution, and..."

"No, what I meant was, how could we have gone all these years and not known?" Aziraphale asked, almost with a panic. "Crowley, how could we not know?"

"It was the darkest night I had seen ever before or since. It was a new moon with cloud cover, and a downpour. The rain was hammering a lake, angel – sounds and scents were drowned by all of that, and sights were minimal. I certainly would have recognised your smell, your voice…"

"And I yours!"

"But all I could see was a very faint outline of someone about Sarrazin's height and build, wearing a cloak with a linen patch on the hood."

The angel closed his eyes. "I recall feeling the height, the sinews, of the man behind me. I recall being surprised at how much they… erm, interested me."

"I felt the same thing. I couldn't believe how inflamed I was by this man, in whom I had had no previous interest," Crowley confessed in kind. "And yet with I pulled up that cloak, and felt that warm, round flesh, and felt him give in to me… it was so clear. For those fifteen minutes or whatever, there was no thought of temptation, or a commendation, or what I was going to do when it was all over… I was focused on him. He was all I wanted."

The two of them looked at each other with a mixture of ecstasy and disbelief.

"This explains a lot," Aziraphale whispered.

"It certainly does."

Crowley took both of his companion's cheeks in hand, leaned over, and kissed him heartily, but briefly. "I have literally never been this happy," he exclaimed, after pulling away, near tears again. "The most passionate, perhaps the most memorable fuck of my life was…"

"And mine! Well, in my case, the only."

"…you. You. Could that really be true?"

"Well, if you were the one making love to the man in the cloak…"

"It was. And if it was you in the cloak…"

"It was."

Crowley sighed. "I must admit, I've had my share of squirmy feelings over it, too, angel. Sarrazin being fairly unremarkable, it's always bothered me a bit that I felt so… you know… all lost in the sensations of this one random man."

"But it was only us. Making love, and feeling just that: love. Not so surprising when you think of it."

"No. Not surprising. And yet, I couldn't be more shocked," Crowley chuckled.

"We sensed each other. Do you think it was a supernatural-being thing, or the result of you and me, as individuals, who have always had a physical, of not spiritual, connection?"

Crowley thought about it for a few moments. "Yes."

Aziraphale chuckled. "Well, which?"

"Both! Does it matter?"

"I suppose not, in the end. But now, Crowley, you need not worry," Aziraphale said softly. "No more... squirmy feelings."

"Nor you. You're quite pure, as it turns out, angel. Certainly the purest thing I've ever seen… or laid hands on."

"What a lovely thing to say," said the angel, again, softly, so as not to let the emotion break in his voice.

Crowley reassumed his odalisque pose on the side of the sofa. "I know who Ignace Fendy was… you were right, he was a nasty piece of work. Back then, it was just a scary network of masons. That ganging-up that had been going on for time immemorial. And Sarrazin must've thought I was the same sort of bloke."

"Today, as you've already pointed out, Fendy would be a mafioso."

"Yep. He was well-connected and volatile. If Sarrazin had been mixed up with him, he might've been in deep shit. But Sarrazin was not mixed up with him – they had only known each other a couple of days when you got there.

"And Sarrazin, what of him? I guess… now that I know what I know, I don't quite understand him. He must have fancied…" Aziraphale thought back, thought hard. "…well, you. Mustn't he?"

"He did," Crowley sighed. "It wasn't ambiguous."

"Well, who could blame him?" Aziraphale commented, sheepishly. "He did confess to me that he looked at men in a way he felt he shouldn't."

Crowley nodded. "He was certainly a homosexual. Or, at least swung both ways. You know that sort of proclivity was taboo throughout most of Christendom until shockingly recently."

"But if he… if you… if he thought… and he felt… then why would he…"

"Why would he send you in his place?"

"Yes, he must have been sorely tempted!"

"Oh, he was," lilted Crowley with a proud little smirk. "I am quite good at my job, you know."

"He claimed not to be a man of great conviction, and yet he chose his wife and family over a shag in a cave," Aziraphale marvelled.

"Men like him, back then…" Crowley sighed again. "They just had to survive. They had to make sure no-one knew, come what may."

"Oh, dear," Aziraphale sighed.

"And if you're going to acknowledge it within yourself, you either you take chances with clandestine meetings with others of your kind, or you don't. Take your life in your hands, or never quite have what you want and need."

"What a choice."

"Sarrazin, poor bastard, chose not to risk it. Or, perhaps you, Monsieur Angevin, influenced him not to. It's entirely possible he'd have turned up in the cave and got the screwing of his life, had you not knocked on his door the day before. He would most definitely have been disgraced after that because of the gambling miners. Or mining gamblers…"

"The who?"

"Those men who stumbled into the cave right at the end and caught us."

"That was your doing?"

"Of course," Crowley shrugged. "What good is it tempting a man into a cave-canoodle if no-one finds out about it? Public disgrace was a big M.O. for me, back in the days when everyone had a stick up their arse. I went to a tavern and told some drunken gambling idiots that there was gold in 'them thar hills,' and they believed me. They even believed the bit about midnight being the best time to loosen gold from rock."

"I suppose that makes sense – the bit about public disgrace. Sarrazin definitely would not have had a miraculously well-timed, and well-suited, job and home waiting for him at Versailles, had I not become part of his life."

"So, I suppose, technically, angel, I lost upon the battleground of Sarrazin's soul."

"I believe you did," Aziraphale chuckled.

"But who are we kidding? I think everyone won this one," Crowley said, smiling, admiring his companion.

Aziraphale smiled back, and they had a moment of pure, unadulterated clarity. Love. Just love. Perhaps the only moment like this that they had ever had. Although, perhaps not.

After a few beats, Aziraphale closed his eyes, and took a deep, cleansing breath. "For years, I had dreams, and ghostly sensations. The man's body, his arms, his firm chest, his shoulders, his lovely, smooth hands in my…"

The angel blushed, and Crowley smirked, remembering. "Mm-hm."

"And all along, I've thought what a deviant I am for these lustful lingerings of a not-very-nice man."

"Maybe Sarrazin and Fendy are caricatures of what you and I would be, if we didn't have each other."

"I'd be a gambler and you'd be a mobster?"

"No, you'd be boring, and I'd be a monumental arsehole."

Aziraphale giggled. "It's fun to think about, but you know it can't be true."

Crowley smiled at him affectionately. "Nah. You couldn't be boring if you tried."

To the demon's surprise, Aziraphale lay down on his back, with his head on the cushion just below where Crowley's chest lay sideways. The proximity inflamed them both once again. They could smell one another, and feel the frustrated, tentative anticipation radiating off one another.

The angel placed his hands demurely across his middle. "I'd been thinking all this time that I had ruined myself. That I had tainted our relationship before it could begin…"

"No, never," Crowley growled, hotly, running his fingers gently over the angel's lips. "And not just because it was me in that cave, and not a Master Mason. Me, with my arms around you, me inside you…"

Aziraphale licked those fingers gently, hinting at that cautious, but definite desire that was remounting.

Crowley slipped his still very smooth fingers into his angel's mouth, and the latter could do naught but close his eyes and suck on them like a man starved, just as he had seven hundred years ago. "Mm," he moaned, closing his eyes.

"But because nothing you could ever do would taint you in my eyes."

"Mm…" Aziraphale said, now taking Crowley's hand, and pulling a third finger into his mouth.

"Never worry again, angel," Crowley whispered, moving his fingers in and out of the angel's hot, gripping mouth, rhythmically, feeling desire and temptation rising again. He shifted into arousal-mode, and his voice and lingo changed. "Because now you know that when you were sucking on salty fingers, and getting your hole filled, and spurting your cream all over a skilled hand, you were building something, instead of tearing it down. You were purifying yourself, rather than the opposite."

"Mm…" Aziraphale moaned again, thoroughly enjoying hearing the graphic language, and being brought back to that time and place, through sense memory, Crowley's voice, and the taste of his skin.

"I see your trousers bulging again," the demon practically sang. He reached across and rubbed it through the fabric, and delighted in listening to the beautiful, pure moans coming from his best friend's throat. "Mm, yes… oh, there it is – long and thick. I remember being impressed by this appendage of yours, back then, angel. Having a nice, big, handful makes the stroking so much more satisfying."

He continued to caress the ever-growing hardness beneath the fussy tan trousers, and study Aziraphale's face. The angel was not in control of his faculties, at the moment, and could do nothing but suck, and moan. He relished in these few minutes, but his brain was working overtime, and he wondered if Aziraphale's was as well. Though, he reckoned, this might be the one time (or maybe the second time) in history when his companion's brain actually short circuited, and provided no help.

"Angel?" he whispered.

"Mm," said Aziraphale, pulling Crowley's fingers from his mouth. "Yes, my dear?"

"There's one school of thought that says that if we let this go any further, we will have so much more to lose," Crowley said. "That we should hold back until we know we have forever, or the abrupt and violent end of our relationship, should it happen later today, might be all the more painful."

"Indeed," Aziraphale said, sadly.

"On the other hand, there's another school of thought that says we've come this far," Crowley continued. He leaned down to kiss and suck at the smooth, pink neck, still stroking his angel's bulge. "Too far to turn back safely. And we wouldn't want to face our fates tomorrow, having regrets."

"Indeed," Aziraphale repeated, with slightly more hope in his voice.

"So, do I bring this lovely, lovely instrument out into the open and make it pop and spurt just like I did seven hundred years ago?" Crowley asked, squeezing gently. "Or do I stop, keep my hands to myself for the time being, and make us some coffee before we do another body-swap?"

"You're leaving it up to me?" Aziraphale whined.

"Yes. You're the nice one. The scrupulous one. You know what's best. Tell me to stop, or tell me to continue. Either way, I will love you for it."

Aziraphale closed his eyes, but after a few seconds, tears leaked out. He said, "Oh, Crowley. Stop."

"All right," said the demon, calmly, immediately taking his hand away from his companion's straining member, and trying desperately to ignore his own. He sat up straight. "Coffee?"

"I can't believe I said that," Aziraphale croaked. "Oh, my…"

"It's all right. It's the right thing to do," Crowley said. He stood up, and headed for the kitchen.

"Oh, you're upset," Aziraphale exclaimed, sitting up himself.

"I'm not upset," Crowley said, calling from the corridor. "But I've got a raging hard-on, and if I stay in the same room with you, it will never go away. Same goes for you."

"Right," Aziraphale sighed, looking down at the disappointed bulge. For a few moments, he wondered if he had made the wrong decision. But one thought of how good it had once felt to unleash all over Crowley's hand (even if he didn't know it was Crowley's hand), and how bloody divine it would feel to do it again, and then having to face the minions of Hell, not certain he would ever be back, ever feel that again, ever see Crowley again… "No, this is right. It has to be."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said, please don't hate me! Aziraphale and I have our reasons!
> 
> There is at least one more chapter to go... two, if you choose. But the revelations in this chapter, and the last, are really the "climax" of the story (pardon the pun). What did you think? Your feedback is super valuable to me, so don't be silent!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	8. EIGHT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We have all wondered exactly what happened on that night, when Crowley said "you can stay at my place, if you like." But personally, (and this is where the real fun of the chapter lies for me) I've always wanted to see the scene that would come directly after they make the swap, but before they leave Crowley's flat. I think that scene could have been mightily entertaining!
> 
> That scene is here! We also have a bit of waiting about in Berkeley Square, lunch at the Ritz, and some good, old-fashioned FEELS!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is weird, but I have my reasons. Bear with me.
> 
> Revealing the truth of the cave incident, THAT was the actual point of this story. But it is called "Body Swap," so we can't end this thing without seeing the onscreen Body Swap, can we? No, of course not!
> 
> We also left the previous chapter a bit frustrated. If we're to have satisfaction, there needs to be resolution, and this chapter should provide at least one type.
> 
> Enjoy!

The agitated angel and his demonic counterpart spent the next half-hour in separate rooms, having coffee, trying to shake off the revelations of the past several hours, and to think of anything unsexy.

"Can I come in now?" Crowley asked, after his body had calmed, making sure the same was true of his companion. Because if they were to walk into their executions with clear heads and nothing seeming amiss, it would not do for them to spend more time together in a state of heightened excitement.

"I suppose," Aziraphale sighed, standing up from the sofa, where he'd been sitting, meditating.

"So, I was thinking, basic glamour, with physical contact as a replication exemplar," Crowley said, striding back into the room with his jacket back on, hair combed, trousers under control.

"Really? I would think that would be a tad risky."

"Risky? How?" Crowley asked, stopping across the coffee table from the angel.

"Well, it's superficial, isn't it?" Aziraphale argued. "So superficial as to be, I daresay, unstable."

"Okay, look, when you're walking around looking like me, don't stay stuff like 'I daresay.'"

"Crowley, focus. A glamour is thin and lazy, and could be seen through by the right personnel. We need something more like, say, a stage-two infusion."

"That's… that's…" Crowley stammered, thinking about it. "That's old magic! No one does that stuff anymore!"

"That's because no-one on either side trusts anyone else enough to try it," Aziraphale said. "Not to mention, there hasn't been any good reason to do it in quite some time. Except maybe your lot, trying to confound people, or some such."

"It's an exchange of flesh, not just appearance. You don't think that's a bit dangerous?"

"I think it's the only thing that has a chance at working," Aziraphale said. "Anything else, and I might shrink two inches randomly while I'm trying to be you. Or my own voice might blip in and out. Or your hair will turn red while you're pretending to be me, or…"

"Yeah, yeah, you're right," Crowley sighed. "Sorry, it's just… it's a pretty deep change."

"It is, but… it's you and me. We've already deeply changed each other," Aziraphale said, with a shy smile. "What's one more go, to save each other's lives?"

Crowley smiled. "What a way with words and notions. No wonder you're so good at doing temptations on my behalf, angel."

An awkward silence passed between them, of the sort they had not experienced in millennia. Then, Aziraphale said, "So, are we ready?"

"I suppose so," Crowley said, and he held out his hand. Aziraphale took it.

And they both concentrated, and did a mutual bit of miracling that caused their corporeal forms to exchange positions. The flesh wrapping that had belonged to Crowley for the past six thousand years now housed the mind and soul of a certain angel. Aziraphale's issued body was now harbouring the insides of the demon. Both bodies underwent a diffusing and infusing of energies. That is to say, a draining, then fortifying of supernatural powers and sensibilities. Any body that Aziraphale would inhabit would be soaked in Heavenly assets, and therefore immune to holy water. The same was true of Crowley and Hellfire. Subconsciously, they had both willed their respective clothing to switch as well.

And so, if they were correct, and Heaven and Hell never worked out what they had just done, then retribution would be a cinch.

"Except, er," said Crowley, stopping short, and clearing his throat after hearing Aziraphale's voice come out. "Whoa… that's weird."

"Indeed," said Aziraphale. He couldn't help but laugh. But it was Crowley's laugh that came out, which made him giggle even more.

"Stop that!"

"I can't help it!" Aziraphale insisted, testing out Crowley's falsetto. "It's so bizarre!"

"I suppose it's either laugh or cry," Crowley commented, pulling Aziraphale's voice down into a lower register.

He crossed his arms (well, not his…), annoyed, feeling the uncomfortable Victorian suit tighten across the back of this barrel-chested body. He noted, as he often did, how much he liked this shape, though it didn't feel particularly comfortable at the moment.

He also realised he'd have to stop himself from touching certain parts of this body unduly, before he had permission to do so from its proper owner, and before he was back in his own body. He cursed inwardly, wishing that thought hadn't crossed his mind.

Now he was even more annoyed.

He waited for the angel occupying his body to stop his undignified laughing. "Done?"

"Yes, yes. Sorry, what were you going to say?" Aziraphale asked, standing up straight, and clasping his hands loosely, attentively, at his breastbone.

"That! That, right there!" Crowley complained, pointing at how his companion was holding his hands. "If you're going to convince anyone, you've got to keep a lid on those mannerisms."

"You don't like them?"

"I like them on you, but you're supposed to be me! Put your hands at your sides. Put my hands at your sides. My hands at my sides. Whatever – just do it!"

Aziraphale did as asked, and asked, "How's that?"

"Fine. Now walk across the room."

Crowley then watched his own body move from one end of the salon to the other, with its arms firmly at its sides, taking small steps, a nervous look on its face.

"Well?" asked Aziraphale.

Crowley sighed. "We'll fix the facial expression when we get the glasses on you. But the walk… oh, angel, we're both doomed."

"Then tell me what I'm doing wrong!"

"You're walking like a robot!"

"Do you want me to walk like an English dandy?"

"No, walk like me!"

Aziraphale tried to picture Crowley's usual walk. It was the confident swagger of someone who's sexy and knows it.

He tried it out.

Crowley groaned, as he now observed his body leaning into each step with one shoulder pushed forward, then up, then back. Then the other shoulder did the same thing, as the feet moved awkwardly across the floor.

"Well, I'm sorry, but I'm not you!" Aziraphale exclaimed in response to the groan.

"It's all in the hips," Crowley tried. "One more time."

"Hips. Right."

Aziraphale gave it a go, but the result made Crowley cringe even more. "Stop, stop, stop. You look like a robot again. One that's been dipped in water, and is malfunctioning. Okay, don't do my usual walk… just try something more understated – like me, but in deep thought or something. Take longer strides than you were taking before, and swing the arms just a little."

One last try yielded something passable. "How's that?"

"Relax, and try again – it's not bad."

Aziraphale practised a few times, then said, "I can't see you, Crowley. If I could see you, I could remember how you move."

"Come with me," Crowley said, then walked in Aziraphale's brown boots to the loo, just off the main hallway, where he only ever went to shower, primp, and fill up his plant mister.

The two of them stepped in, and Crowley closed the door, behind which, a full-length mirror revealed their new looks. Crowley didn't know what to say. He most definitely liked the look of Aziraphale, but found that seeing the angel's face looking back in the mirror was quite disturbing.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, said, "Oh, now, this helps."

"Yeah?"

"Yes, absolutely. I feel it now," he said, cocking one hip, and hooking his thumbs in his jeans pockets. "I love how you move, Crowley. I just needed the visual to settle in, and there it is… it's powerful. I'm bloody gorgeous."

"Thanks," Crowley said with a smirk, straightening the bowtie currently fastened around his neck.

"Oh yes! That's good, Crowley – do it again!"

"What? This?"

Crowley did the motion again, and watched himself in the mirror.

"Yes, it's perfect. And just keep your hands clasped behind your back if you're going to walk, and it should keep your stride reasonable, and your hips straight."

Crowley tried it. "You're right – that works."

"And if you get upset, just smile."

"Like this?"

Crowley gave a tight smile that was slightly too tight, so he adjusted it in the mirror until he could see Aziraphale's trademark expression of discomfort.

"Fantastic," said Aziraphale. "Glasses?"

Crowley opened the medicine cabinet, which seemed to contain only two silver flasks, a bottle of cologne and four pairs of sunglasses. He grabbed one of the latter, opened them up, and personally placed him over the reptilian yellow eyes that were watching him.

"Ready?" he asked.

"No."

"Yeah, me neither," he replied, with a scrunched nose.  
_____________________________________________________________________________

It was his first time back in Heaven since being cast out, and spending half a day there gave Crowley electrical tingles. And not good ones. It burned just enough to make him squirm, but it was all right – he wasn't there for very long, and the uptight nervousness worked to his advantage. He was also reminded of how similar Heaven and Hell actually were, when one got right down to it. Both were, at best, bloody boring, and at worst terrifying. And of course, as he had noted on more than one occasion, one could not get a decent drink in either place. Plus, both were run by morons.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, had never set foot in Hell before. It was not burning that he felt, but more a sickly quality in the pit of his stomach. Hell was dank, echoing, endless, and damned scary. He worried that in his trepidation, he did not behave with enough cool, enough bravado, to pass as Crowley.

Though, in the end, he convinced Crowley's superiors, even if he was playing a more subdued version of his companion.

Both angel and demon felt relief when they became immersed in their respective punishments. The uncomfortable tingles went away when Crowley stepped into the Hellfire, and his uncertainty at the future dissipated when he saw the look on the Archangel Gabriel's face. It was incredibly satisfying. His only regret was that he could not witness Aziraphale backstroking in holy water, scaring the living Hell out of those living in Hell.  
____________________________________________________________________________

Beelzebub approached Aziraphale in his holy bath and waved her arm. Only then, when he was spat back out onto the ground floor Tangible Plane entrance in central London, did it occur to Aziraphale that he and Crowley had perhaps been naïve to think that this would only take a day. He actually marvelled at how little time had transpired for him to be tried and not-executed, because he now felt free, and incredibly lucky.

Except, he then looked about and realised that Crowley had not returned with his body. "Oh dear," he moaned in Crowley's voice. It seemed that neither of them had considered the possibility that one would survive, and the other would not. He knew it was still early, but he was an angel in love, fretful by nature, and he had everything to lose. In addition, he now had an idea that on Heaven's side, it could be a while… decades, perhaps! What had they been thinking, and what was he to do now?

He walked, hands in pockets, so as not to clasp them in front of him as he might do (just in case anyone was still watching), towards a bench in Berkeley Square where they said they would meet when it was all over. He simply could not stop his mind touching on the thought that Crowley had been somehow discovered, and destroyed. He caught glimpses of himself in storefront glasses, and morbidly thought that even if Crowley never returned, he'd have this body, and could always feel close to him…

But fortunately, he needn't have worried. It was less than two hours that he waited in Berkeley Square, before he saw himself – his own body – sauntering through a side gate. His heart leapt, and he had to stifle the urge to run up for an epic hug, and a very public snog.

Instead, they sat restrainedly side-by-side as always, upon a park bench debriefing the day's events. Then they risked a public swap-back, and went to lunch.

It was a particularly poignant lunch, though the fact that it was at the Ritz had nothing to do with that. They drank champagne, sitting across the table from one another, and toasted, "The World." In that idea was encompassed "the future," and "possibilities." Aziraphale ate, while Crowley watched. Afterwards, they had coffee, and the angel partook of dessert, again while his companion watched. It was a lot like a million such meals they had taken before, as though they had to close "this" chapter of their relationship, before the next one could truly begin.  
_____________________________________________________________________________

"Well," Aziraphale sighed, as they walked out onto the street. "Shall we get a taxi?"

"A taxi to where?"

"I was thinking… well, your flat," said the angel, sheepishly. "But come to that, I don't care where, as long as you're there."

Crowley pulled his phone from his pocket. "I'll see if I can call one… hold on…" he said, examining the display on his phone. "Angel, did you use my phone?"

"Oh, yes, I did," said Aziraphale. "I used the Google. Never done it before. It was quite interesting. And efficient!"

Crowley smiled fondly. "Aw, you used it to look up Vincennes."

"Yes, well, I had some time to kill in the Square waiting for you. And I haven't been to Vincennes in seven hundred years, and I was wondering whether the cave was still there, or whether it had been turned into a cinema, or a carpark."

"And?"

"It's still there, but it's a bit of a tourist attraction."

Crowley laughed. "Ah, if only they knew."

"The château, and the Bois, the lake, the cave – it's all been long-since absorbed by the city of Paris, of course, and it's protected by the government, as culturally significant property. Which, I suppose is a good thing. But I had been hoping we could visit…"

"And have an historic re-enactment?"

"More just as a meaningful destination for the two of us," Aziraphale said. "For a holiday. A place we could say is 'our place,' but I rather think the comings goings of tourists would kill the mood."

"We could always stop time, if we wanted to," Crowley suggested with a wry smile, more or less joking.

"Let's just go home," Aziraphale said, softly, taking the demon's hand. "That will do just fine."

"Home," Crowley said, just as softly, with a frisson. "Home, with you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, here is my shameless plug for comments: if you're reading, let me know it! I thrive on it!
> 
> And if you choose, this can be the end of the story! It's a pretty good place to stop, knowing that our favorite ineffable pair are happy together, and headed home.
> 
> However, if you are looking for Crowley and Aziraphale to find the "other" kind of satisfaction, the NSFW kind, then one more chapter is coming! It all depends upon what you're looking for, in the matter of closure.
> 
> Either way, thanks for reading!


	9. NINE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter - the "closure" we, and our ineffable pair, have been looking for! The angel/demon coworker part of their lives is over. Welcome to the next phase! 
> 
> NSFW... goes without saying. Hope you love it!
> 
> Enjoy!

The front door to the flat clicked shut, and it echoed a magnificent finality. It was the sound of shutting out the world. The sound of life, the future, survival, and possibilities.

"Drink?" asked Crowley.

"Only if you want one."

"I bloody well do not," Crowley said, rather breathlessly.

And with that, he had both hands on Aziraphale's jowls, fingers clawing at back of the neck, lips pressed in, searching the angel's. Aziraphale kissed back with gusto, and his hands grasped the lapels of Crowley's blazer. Groans filled the foyer, and before either of them knew what was happening, Crowley had his lover pinned against the wall.

His lips then moved down, once again, toward the fussy starched collar, and began tugging at the tartan bowtie. His lips and tongue sucked and searched at the warm, smooth flesh, as sighs and grunts filled the space. Fireworks and tension took over their bodies.

"Oh, I've missed this," the demon groaned against the angel's smooth skin. "I didn't even know I was missing it!"

"Missing... what?" Aziraphale asked, his voice a bit high with stimulation.

"This... fitting together. Like it was meant to happen. Natural magnetism of you... of us. I felt it in the cave - I thought it was an anomaly, and it was. I've missed the feeling of shutting out of all things except this. Except you."

And with that declaration, Crowley's hands found Aziraphale's buttocks, and squeezed hard.

The angel moaned at the sensation, then, "The cave is the only time you've felt that?"

"Until now. It feels so good to do this," Crowley said, and licked lightly, but effectively the area behind Aziraphale's ear, causing a jolt of anticipation to move through them both. "...and not have to calculate the ripple effect, and think of how to cause as much damage as possible with one act."

"I imagine that would feel good, Crowley," Aziraphale said, between heavy, shallow breaths.

Crowley pulled away and said, softly, "Exactly one time in my life have I ever felt truly immersed in the moment. In the pleasure. Felt like it was meant to be. Thrown temptation to the wind, and just made love to someone."

"Crowley, someday, perhaps, we can do a re-enactment of the cave…"

"I will do whatever you want."

"…and you can stop time so that we aren't discovered by tourists. And we can try to remember every detail, and commemorate our first encounter with each other."

"But not now," Crowley declared, snapping the bowtie away and discarding it on the floor. He then went after the waistcoat buttons.

"No, not now," Aziraphale agreed.

"Sorry. I'm here. Now. The cave sex was fantastic…"

"But the cave was a secret…" Aziraphale continued, as Crowley's lips and tongue once again met the flesh just beneath his ear. "A ruse, meant to contain a temptation and reveal disgrace."

"And I was meant to be with someone else that night," Crowley said. "It was an accident – mere chance – that brought us together." Crowley's hands pushed inside the waistcoat, all the way round to the back, and began untucking the angel's light blue dress shirt.

"Quite right."

Once again, Crowley stopped tugging, stopped licking and kissing, to stare Aziraphale in the eyes. He said, "You're right. I want nothing to do with secrets and lies anymore, angel. Not when it comes to you."

"I most definitely agree," said the angel, his voice trembling just a bit.

"And it's not an accident that we're together."

"No – decidedly not!"

"I love you, and I want you to know it."

"I do know it. And I love you too," Aziraphale replied, unable to contain the bubbling emotion. He had to choked down tears, but the feeling passed.

"I want everyone to know it."

"I think they do know it now, Crowley."

"And this was hard-earned. We waited millennia for this, and we deserve it."

"Yes," Aziraphale practically moaned, the anticipation betraying itself in his voice.

"So there will be no deafness, no darkness," Crowley declared, pushing Aziraphale's Victorian coat and waistcoat down his arms, and miracling them onto a hook on the back of the door.

"No avoiding each other's eyes," Aziraphale said.

"And not a rushed, standing-up fuck with our clothes on."

"No hard, jagged walls, no rain, no uncertainty."

"We do this face-to-face. Intentionally. Laid bare. Honestly," Crowley whispered, finding a straining member pressing against the inside of Aziraphale's trousers, and squeezing just so. "And if you like, vocally."

Aziraphale became vocal, moaning involuntarily in response, and tried hard to maintain eye contact, though felt he might melt into the floor.

"I suppose you know you'll have to take the lead." The angel's voice came out once again shaky and thin. "I am so keen to be with you – my body is aching. But I feel crippled by… by…"

"Shh, shh," Crowley scolded gently, taking his hand away. "No more of that worrying rubbish. Come on." And he took his partner's hand, and led him down the hall. Before Aziraphale knew precisely where they were going, they were in Crowley's stylishly dark bedroom with the door shut.

Crowley gestured down Aziraphale's button-up shirt with flourish, and the garment came undone. The demon took the opportunity to peel back the fabric, and place warm, wet kisses all along the collarbone and shoulders now exposed. Aziraphale once again moaned in response, and shrugged out of the shirt. Crowley ran his hands sensuously down the lightly hairy bare chest and stomach.

"Mmm," he sighed. "Been wanting to do that all our lives."

"Have you?" Aziraphale asked, eyebrows raised, nerves tingeing his voice.

"Of course," came the response. "And this."

Crowley's hands found the Victorian waistband and smoothly unfastened it, whilst his reptilian eyes held those of his companion. The long fingers slithered inside, then past a layer of linen pants, to find a stiff, leaking, cock. Both voices broke the air in the room with their exquisite groaning at the sensation, as the skilled hand wrapped round it for only the second time in six thousand years.

"You've done this already, Crowley. Remember?"

"Not looking you in the eye. Not while I can watch your face and hear your voice, and tell you I love you."

His hand gave an expert twist that caused the angel to gasp, and grunt, "Oh, that's marvelous." His eyes slid shut.

"Yeah," Crowley said, with a smirk. "I'm just getting started."

"I know," the angel groaned, opening his eyes. And he smiled. "We both are."

"One more," Crowley mused, and he repeated the eye-crossing twist, and Aziraphale thought his knees might buckle. His face fell against Crowley's shoulder and his fingertips dug into Crowley's arms as he grunted once again."

When his head cleared enough to re-open his eyes, Crowley was looking back at him hungrily, lower lip gaping. Quite suddenly, he felt himself grabbed by the jowls again, with a ravenous, serpentine tongue in his mouth. Crowley was shifting him to the right, and then ended one-hundred-eighty degrees from where they started. He realised that the bed was now behind him.

"Lie down, angel," Crowley commanded breathlessly, tearing his lips and tongue away, and ripping his blazer off his own body.

Aziraphale backed up to the bed, sat down, then more or less crab-walked up the middle, until his bum was parked in the centre. Crowley urgently peeled off his own shirt, then followed his companion up onto the bed, crawling over him, licking his lips like a predator. He pressed Aziraphale down onto the soft, black bedspread, once again shoving his tongue between the pink, angelic lips.

Crowley ground his pelvis into the strong, thick thigh as their lips locked together, their voices made a chorus of pleasure. After a minute, he found himself thrusting a bit too hard, too lost in the moment, and he sat up straight, kneeling on the bed.

"What's wrong?" Aziraphale asked, surprised.

"Nothing. Just a bit… excited."

"Isn't that the point?" The angel had a soft smile on his face.

"This is too good... I was getting a bit ahead of myself. I'd rather we do that together – at least on this go."

"Oh. I see," Aziraphale commented, blushing.

Crowley's eyes roved over him for a few moments. Then, "I want you out of your kit. All of it. Are you ready for that?"

"I… I daresay I am."

Crowley smirked naughtily and snapped his fingers. With that, Aziraphale's pants and trousers disappeared, and reappeared draped over a nearby chair, along with his socks and boots.

Once again, the snake-like eyes roamed over Aziraphale's soft, heavenly body, now totally bare. His chest heaved with excited breaths, and his thick cock stood up, hard and straight.

"Oh, how lovely," Crowley practically moaned, admiring what he saw.

"I'm glad you think so," Aziraphale said, timidly. "I'd say it's all rather too round."

"Not too round, angel. Round, and flawless," Crowley muttered, once again wrapping his hand about the engorged phallus. He stroked with gusto now, as the head turned a painful shade of purple, and Aziraphale's back arched. He bit his lip and grunted hard.

"You want to curse, don't you, angel?"

"Perhaps."

"Do it," Crowley urged, then he spat in his hand in preparation to do it again. "Last time, neither of us said a word. This time, give me some filth to chew on."

"Crowley!"

"Don't bite your lip the next time I squeeze that fat dick of yours. Instead, say what's on the tip of your tongue! Will you do that for me?"

"I don't know if I could…" he said, trailing off, as Crowley squeezed again, and ran his slippery fist all the way up the hard, aching shaft. Once again, the angel bit his lip and grunted.

"Damn it, angel," Crowley said, playfully. "Am I going to have to stroke that thing all night to get an expletive out of you? Or even just some depraved description?"

"Would that be so terrible?" Aziraphale asked, flirtatiously.

Crowley smiled. "Oh, very nice, very nice. You know I'm never going to last that long."

"Why not?"

Crowley spread the oozing liquid over the bulbous head of his partner's cock, and said, "Because I can't wait to get this big, hard handful inside me."

"Oh… oh…" Aziraphale couldn't help but moan.

"Ah, well," Crowley sighed, getting up on his knees. He unbuttoned his trousers and pulled his own cock free, and began to stroke. "All is not lost. Besides, they say lead by example."

"They do," Aziraphale said, staring hungrily at the appendage slipping back and forth through his lover's fist. It was as he remembered: long, and rock-hard. In the cave, he hadn't seen it, just felt it penetrating him like a piston. But now he could see that it was sinewy and wholly delicious-looking. It begged for a good licking, much like the demon himself.

Crowley stood up, and rather absently removed his trousers and pants. "So perhaps that's what I'll do," he was saying.

"L-lead by example?"

"Oh yes," Crowley practically sang, discarding what was left of his clothing. He crawled back up on the bed, and straddled Aziraphale's middle. He planted both hands on either side of the angel's head, and hissed, "So, if I can get you to shoot a big, thick load of cream into me, maybe you'll have some choice words for me then, eh?"

"M-maybe."

Crowley spat on his hand again, then reached back and spread the slippery all over the thick dick he had hungered for, for always.

"Face-to-face, angel," he said. "Intentional. No deafness, no darkness, no secrets."

"Indeed."

The demon braced himself against his partner's chest, and rose up on his knees. With his free hand, he guided a saliva-covered (whose viscosity was perhaps enhanced by magic), mushroomed cockhead to his back passage, and eased himself down surprisingly slowly.

He took a deep breath, and uttered a soft, pleasing, "Mm," as Aziraphale's member popped past the puckered ring.

"Oh… oh… oh…" panted the angel, as the tight, hot, arse of his favourite demon sheathed his throbbing dick, and his body and mind exploded with sensations he had never dreamed about.

And then, it was done. Crowley relaxed his body, and found himself sitting astride his longtime love, his counterpart, his angelic bastard of a best friend, his hole filled, his own cock pulsating and nearly purple, resting on a soft, heaving stomach. He pressed his hands against Aziraphale's chest, and the two of them simply stared at each other for a long few moments. Crowley flexed his insides, and Aziraphale felt him throb. Crowley smiled, and Aziraphale smiled back.

Crowley asked, "Liking that?"

Aziraphale answered, "Oh, yes, loving it!"

"Good," the demon lilted, as he began to move. Up and down, back and forth, milking Aziraphale's cock with his own wet, gripping hole. "That's all you have to do - just love it, angel."

He kept a steady, slow rhythm for about a minute, never breaking his penetrating gaze into his lover's clear blue eyes, never varying the strokes. But then, he rose up, and slammed back down, impaling himself hard, and feeling that strong trunk of a cock dig into his insides even deeper. He moaned, "Oh, fuck," as he did this. And then he repeated it. Again, then again…

Aziraphale's mouth gaped open in amazement and pleasure, as he watched the most beautiful creature he had ever seen ride him hard, and begin to sweat and pant. Crowley couldn't help but once again shove two fingers into that lovely mouth, and watch the lips close over them and begin to suck.

"I love the way you do that, angel," Crowley panted. "Makes me glad it's still early… so many things to try."

And he grabbed Aziraphale's hand and did likewise. He sucked two fingers, whirling his deft tongue round the fingertips, teasing, moaning, biting lightly. All the while, riding his lover at a gallop, panting, moaning, grinding a thick, pulsating, celestial rod as deeply as possible into his own arse.

Eventually, Crowley removed his fingers, leaned down and replaced them with his tongue, fucking the pretty pink mouth in rhythm with his body's movements. The two of them grunted together as they danced, moved, grasped, filled each other's holes, and took from each other a long, hard-earned gratification, that had been brimming just beneath the surface for six thousand years. And had, on only one occasion, erupted accidentally in a cave.

But this was far from being a cave. This was a dark, warm bedroom, with the smell and feel of sex in the air. They could see each other's faces in the throes of ecstasy and urgency. They could urge each other on, and in Aziraphale's case, beg for release.

"My temperature is rising, my love," he panted. "I need to…"

"Yes? Need to what, angel? Say it?"

"I feel I'm going to burst!"

"And I can't wait!"

"Only go faster," Aziraphale said. "Please… go faster!"

Crowley slowed down. "What was that, now?"

Aziraphale let out a cry of frustration. "Please ride me faster, Crowley! I need to be released!"

"Grab my cock, angel," Crowley demanded, breathlessly. "Stroke me off, and release like a fucking geyser, deep, deep in my hole."

Just the words were enough to make Aziraphale moan, and he happily wrapped his hand around Crowley's long, now hair-trigger member.

Crowley leaned back and rested his hands on his partner's shins. He pumped his body up and down with a pace and gusto he had rarely ever displayed, and immediately felt Aziraphale's body tighten and arch.

"Ugh… fuck!" came spitting hard out of the angelic mouth, as his cock throbbed, and Crowley felt his arse being filled with warm, slippery cream.

"That's right, angel," Crowley panted with a vindicated smile, as white threads of his own come began to spurt into the air. "Oh, that's how you do it!"

More come filled Crowley's rear passage in spurts, waves, and the angel beneath him repeated, "Fuck!" as his back continued to arch.

Aziraphale also gripped his demonic companion's dick rather hard, as more milky spatter littered the angelic wrist, stomach and chest.

"Shit," Crowley whispered harshly as he and his delectable angel locked eyes, the last of their emissions oozed out into and onto each other's bodies. They breathed, and throbbed, and kissed hard, still grinding into each other, trying to devour, be filled, and claim each other.

When the spasms finally stopped, Crowley sat upright and dragged two fingers through the slippery mess he had made on Aziraphale's stomach, taking a dollop of cream. Once again, he shoved the fingers in the angel's mouth, and demanded, "Suck it off."

Aziraphale enjoyed the salty flavour, and moaned with lascivious delight as he tasted his companion's come for the first time.

"Like?" Crowley asked, mostly rhetorically.

"Mm, yes," Aziraphale answered, smacking his lips.

"I'll have a little taste of yours later," Crowley told him. "Maybe straight from the source, after you've had a bit of time to recover."

"Oh my," Aziraphale said, blushing.

"Really? Blushing? After what we just did?"

"Well, Crowley…"

"Meh, I'm just joshing you," Crowley chuckled. He leaned down for a kiss. Then he disengaged himself and stood up. Any resultant mess was quickly snapped up and away, via demonic magic. "How about some dinner?"

"All right – I've never said no to that. In addition, I imagine we must fortify ourselves for a second go."

Again, Crowley snapped his fingers, and suddenly, his trousers were back on. Paradoxically, he then said, "Meh – angels and demons don't need fortification. I just want to suck you off while you eat crêpes."

"I don't imagine myself saying no to that, either," Aziraphale said, sitting up, swiveling to the side to put his feet on the floor.

"I'm hoping you never say no to me again," Crowley lilted, tilting a naughty eyebrow, and leaning down to kiss the angel's neck.

"Making others say yes, it's what you do, I suppose," Aziraphale sighed.

"Did, angel," Crowley corrected. "It's what I did. Far as I'm concerned, I'm retired. Now, it's all about making you say yes. And only you. So, fancy filling your mouth with crêpes and brie, while I fill mine with you?"

"Yes," Aziraphale said. "I do quite fancy that."

"Excellent."

"I'll place a delivery order while you pour the wine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... thoughts? ;-) Clearly, the evening is not over, but it's not my intention to continue the story (I just can't resist mixing food with sex, where these two are concerned. Can't think why!). This was an epilogue to the cave revelation, but a prologue to the rest of their lives!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this bit of closure, and the weird foray back to the dreaded 14 century - perhaps Crowley won't look back on it with such disdain now!
> 
> Don't forget to leave a COMMENT, because it will make my day, and as always, thank you for reading!


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